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From 
A Southern Porch 



By 

Dorothy Scarborough 

Author of ** Fugitive Verses," ** The Supernatural in Modem 
English Fiction," etc. 



G. P. Putnam's Sons 

New York and London 

JLbc Icnfcfterbocftcr t>vces- 

1919 






t^'-.A 



\ 



Copyright, 1919 

BY 
DOROTHY SCARBOROUGH 



M'0\l 28 !313 

. Vbe Itniclterboclter press, f^cw ]^orh 

©CI.A536694 



All Those on Whose Porches 
I Have Spent Pleasant Houks 



FOREWORD 

Books in abundance have been written about 
houses and the people who live in them, as there 
are various volumes concerning gardens and the 
joys of digging in the patient earth. But nobody- 
has written a book about porches, which seems to 
me monstrous ingratitude. For how many works 
of literature have been composed on porches or 
inspired by them! How often has Pegasus got a 
famous start from some rocking-chair on a dreamy 
veranda ! And how many stodgy books there are, 
which might have leaped and run, filled with 
vinous life, if only they had been porch-written ! 

The porch is the soul of a house. Poor and 
spiritless indeed is that structure which lacks it. 
Only compare a colonial mansion with its noble 
piazza, with the stooped and cowering city dwelling, 
and judge how different must be the life that goes 
on inside the two. Small wonder that city houses, 
conscious of the moral indignity of their appear- 
ance, huddle together in shame like criminals 



vi jforetDorti 

seeking to hide themselves in a crowd. Fancy a 
man's having to ask of his own latchkey which is 
his house! — of a latchkey subject, moreover, to 
moments of midnight exhilaration wherein it 
mocks its questioner. Imagine going right into 
a house, with no gracious lingering on a porch! 
Or of stepping out of the door to find oneself on 
the alien pavement! Such procedure outrages 
all the amenities of life. True gentility is in- 
separable from a porch. Somewhere in the past 
of every courtly soul will be found a benignant 
porch, stretching its influence over the years. 

This, then, is a tribute of love to porches, and 
meant only for the eyes of fellow-porchers, not at 
all for the critical gaze of folk who sit shut up in 
houses. The colored people in Virginia have a 
saying that all kinds of meat are to be found in the 
turtle's flesh. This volume might be considered 
mock-turtle's meat, for it is a joyous, irresponsible 
jumble of things I like, what Aunt Mandy would 
call "a mixtry." It has written itself with tongue 
acheek, breaking all the laws I know of unity, 
coherence, and continuity, and should be read on 
a friendly Southern porch. 

The "ballets" and ''reels" included here are 
given just as they were taken down from dusky 



jforetoorb vii 



lips in Texas and Virginia. The}' are genuine 
negro folk songs, not "cooked" or edited in any- 
way, and, so far as I can learn, have not been 
previously published. 

Richmond, Virginia, 
July, 1919- 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I. — The Porcher . . . . . i 

II. — Entomology on a Country Porch . 33 

III. — Porch Reptiles • • • • 73 

IV. — Bird Study from a Country Porch . 104 

V. — Botanizing from a Country Porch 134 

VI, — A Southern Exposure . . .158 

VII. — Back-Porch Callers . . .191 

V III. — A Little Study in Black and White . 214 

IX. — Eating on the Porch . . . 237 

X. — Sleeping Out . . . • 259 

XI. — Porch Raillery . . . .281 



IX 



jfrom a Southern poxch 



THE PORCHER 

During the summer I am a porcher. My 
occupation is not so bad as it sounds, however, 
being not at all burglarious, for I am not a climber 
but a sitter. During the long, delightful summer, 
I do nothing but sit on a porch by the side of the 
road and watch the world go by, what time I am 
not lying on a swinging couch. The verb porch, 
not yet included in Sir James Murray's otherwise 
complete English dictionary, means to live on a 
porch. According to etymological analogy, it is 
an impeccably constructed word, and a porcher 
is one who lives on a porch. Compare it with 
farmer, rancher, scholar, and so forth, and you will 
recognize its right to existence. Porching may 
seem to some a parlous task, an occupation in- 



Jfrom a ^outjern J^orcfj 



active, devoid of thrills, but not so to me. It 
has its joys for those who know to snatch them — 
and personally, I've always been considered a 
pretty good snatcher ! 

I must porch steadily in the summer, because 
it is only in vacations that I may indulge in this 
enterprise dear to my body and my soul. In i. 
fall, winter, and spring, my life is very different, 
delightful, it is true, but antipodic to this. At those |, 
seasons I live elsewhere, on a certain densely, 
highly, and variously populated island, but I do 
not think of it as my home. My real home could j | 
never be a place where one sits decorously inside 
steam-heated — or worse still, not steam-heated — i| 
walls. My soul cries out for porches, for rocking- }| 
chairs and white dresses, for the wide spaces of 
old Virginia gardens. Oh, those gardens of old ij 
Virginia, — how their beauty wrings my heart ! ■ 

Torching, in the real sense of the word, cannot 
be done in the gregarious rockers on hotel piazzas, ] \ 
where idle women crochet industriously and 
embroider linen and the truth about their neigh- 
bors. On the contrary, it is a high calling apart. 
In the South the porch is the true center of the 
home, around which life flows on gently and 
graciously, with an open reserve, a charming 



tlTfje J^orcljer 



candor. One does not stay inside the house 
more than is absolutely necessary, for all such 
pleasant occupations as eating and sleeping, read- 
ing, studying, working, and entertaining one's 
friends are carried on on some companionable 
piazza or other. There are porches to meet all 
needs, all moods, and all hours. As the sun travels, 
one migrates from porch to porch, though there are 
some widely shaded verandas that are inhabitable 
at all times. With numberless porches upstairs 
and down, one can always find solitude if one 
wishes, or discover some congenial soul to talk or 
be silent with. 

In the South, when a person plans a home, he 
first builds a porch, and then if he has any money 
left, he adds few or more rooms according to his 
needs, but the porch is the essential thing. One 
college professor that I know, who had only a 
limited sum with which to build a home, insisted 
that he must have at least a bathroom in addi- 
tion to his veranda, all other quarters being, if 
necessary, dispensable. But the rise in contrac- 
tors' prices, with no corresponding elevation of 
professorial salaries, had reduced him to the 
necessity of relinquishing either the one or the 
other. Since he could not have a bathroom and a 



Jfrom ff ^outfjern J^orcfj 



porch, he said he would put his bathtub on his 
porch. Even so, he would have a home, for while 
in New York every man's house is his prison, in 
the South every man's porch is his home. 

The public porch is an ancient thing, but the 
private affair as part of the dwelling-house, is 
modern. The earliest porticoes are said by the 
encyclopedia to be the two at the Tavern of the 
Winds at Athens, and there would seem to have 
been some at the entrance to Diomedes' villa 
outside the Pompeiian gate, though in Rome (so 
my reference friend asserts) they were probably 
not allowed. No wonder Rome fell! We know 
that the glory of Greek culture was due to the 
fact that teaching was done by means of affable 
conversation on porches, as students and philoso- 
pher strolled up and down. How much less 
onerous would learning be to-day if our colleges 
pursued such plans ! There were porches attached 
to the early churches, which explains why people 
went to church oftener then than now. 

But curiously enough, the public porch has disap- 
peared, and the home-porch risen among us. It re- 
mained for the moderns to construct verandas to 
houses where people live, since it is only the modems 
who know how to live comfortably and agreeably. 



^f)t ^orcfjer 



It has been said that in the old days piazzas had 
not been inveiited because people had no leisure, 
but that we of to-day are wealthy and inventive 
enough to spend our time in happy loafing. An- 
cient and medieval life lacked many of the fine 
points of knowing how to live, and piazzas were 
among their greatest deprivations. I am joyful 
that I was not born in a porchless age. It is 
pleasing, also, to remember that the household 
porch as we have it now, is an American invention, 
a distinctively American institution, a product 
of our hospitality and our craving for the un- 
restricted outlook, the far gaze upon life. 

What bliss to live in the open, with a floor to 
protect one from the damp and the dust, and a 
roof to ward off obtrusive rain and sun! Walls 
are nonessential, pure encumbrances to real 
living, the outgrowth of effete civilization. A 
porch is more than a mere extension of a house in 
wood or stone or brick. It is an expansion of the 
soul in terms of beauty and light and breadth of 
view. How different is the life lived on the 
porch from that suffered in a connecting series of 
little dark closets in the city, where the rooms 
are so small that they are but the outer shell of the 
tenant, who feels undressed when he steps out 



Jfrom a ^outJjern ^orcft 



into the street! Man was made for the wide 
spaces of field and sky, not for prisoning cells. 
Inside four walls man's powers are contracted, 
but on a porch with outlook to the sun, the stars, 
the wide open, they are expanded infinitely. 

The porch soul is the foundation for the highest 
type of character, — the wideness of spiritual 
vision, the joy in living, the generosity of nature 
found in people who live on porches and lacking in 
natures restricted to mere houses. Were not the 
hanging gardens of Babylonia one form of porches, 
giving beauty and joy to those creating them? 
And were not the great Biblical characters in the 
habit of spending their time on open roofs equiva- 
lent to our upstairs verandas? Think how the 
porch balcony in Italy has romanticized litera- 
ture and life! Consider the apartment houses in 
Paris which are so constructed that each tenant 
may have his little veranda, — and the French 
custom of dining on the sidewalk is but an ex- 
tension of the porch ideas. Those countries have 
the porch soul. The Spanish patio and the Eng- 
lish walled garden have the requisite uplook, of 
course, but they lack the broad view which a real 
piazza gives. 

But compare with these genial nations the 



Wi^t ^orcfjer 



Turks, for instance, where life is walled-in alto- 
gether, and where no woman may rock on her 
own porch in the open and enjoy free air and 
society. The haremlik is an emblem of the 
porchless soul. And have the Germans porches? 
No! The imperial palaces in which the Kaiser 
lived his autocratic life were porchless, so that he 
had no means of sensing the actual life outside. 
The real cause of the great war is the absence 
of porches in Germany. One cannot have the 
proper inlook unless he has an outlook, since a 
vista is necessary for the true formation of char- 
acter. Beware the man who never has a far gaze ! 
A porch gives a look of repose and serenity to a 
house because it indicates the porch soul. 

Fancy a porch in the early morning, when the 
flowers have fresh-washed faces, when the dust is 
laid by the dew, when the happy stir of life goes 
on all about. I can see so much from my porch 
here in the country, which is yet near enough 
to the city to witness all sorts of people pass. 
Sprawly puppies are worrying each other on the 
newly cut grass, darkeys are singing in the near-by 
fields as they hoe corn, two jaybirds are quarrel- 
ing on the gravel walk, uttering profane synonyms 
at each other, and a hen wanders across a flower- 



8 Jfrom a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

bed, calling her offspring with stern duckings, in 
response to which the brood breaks after her, 
scrambling and chirping like an agitated omelet. 
I can see a black woman going by on the road, a 
basket of clothes balanced on her head, — swaying 
but never in danger of falling. Groups of laugh- 
ing, gay young negroes pass by to their work or to 
errands in town. Little boys, as black as the 
berries they have in their buckets for sale, are on 
their way to market. An old mule ambles rest- 
fully down the road, drawing a cart that creaks 
with rheumatism and years, and that has one 
hind wheel at an alarming angle with the body 
of the cart. But the driver, an ebony antique, is 
unagitated, and the animal at ease of mind. Not 
for any inducement would that mule quicken his 
pace. Autos from the city whirl by with sophis- 
ticated snorts and honk-honks, raising resentful 
dust in whorls. 

In case I wish to write, I can do so lounging 
luxuriously in a swinging couch, with a pair of 
wrens in the nest under the eaves above me giving 
me warbly assistance, and with a foxhound puppy 
licking my idle hand. A chipmunk creeps out 
and runs along the low stone wall near by, at the 
crest of the hill, and sits watching me to see if I 



tKfje J^orcfjer 



mean well. A mocking bird that has a nest in the 
Cherokee rose-vine near by the tulip poplar tree, is 
singing divinely, pouring out liquid light and danc- 
ing melody and dreams set to music that may never 
be imitated. I pause with my pencil dropping 
from my hand, for how can one but listen to that 
joyous bird? I think I'd choose to be a mocking 
bird in my next incarnation rather than anything 
else, because I've always so longed to sing and have 
not been able to in this life. 

On the other side of the porch are opportunities 
for study of human nature. The young people of 
the household bring their friends there. Lucia is 
usually there with one or more of her visitors, 
and in the afternoons and evenings there are likely 
to be various callers. Lucia is a distant cousin 
of the household, who has come up from Alabama 
to pay a visit, a summer-long visit, of the sort 
girls pay in the South, — yet which we feel will be 
all too-short in this case. Lucia is the kind of 
girl for whom everybody likes to do things, — 
particularly trousered everybody — and does them 
in one's best way, feeling, moreover, that one's 
best is not good enough for her. 

Lucia has had many admirers since she came. 
Many call but none are chosen, it appears, though 



10 Jfrom a ^outfjetn ^orcfi 

two in particular, the Doctor and the Professor, 
have a persistence worthy of a better cause, Lucia 
says, that would doubtless mean success in any 
undertaking not dependent upon feminine emo- 
tion. Porch courtships are entertaining to the 
observer, but I have other things enspiriting to 
watch, so that I give only half an eye and ear to 
the other end of the porch, and with the other 
fractions realize the wonders about me. 

There is so much to see that I wish for a hundred 
eyes. The friendly road with all its travelers 
attracts me, for it is a restful thing to watch other 
people going about their busy affairs, while I loaf 
in the shade. The birds think these tall trees, 
this woody lawn, their sanctuary, for they fly 
and sing at will, minding me no more than if I 
were one of them. If I notice carefully I can see 
the roses open in the sun, and fancy what their 
thoughts must be about this gay green world. The 
yellow lilies nod wisely to each other, day-dream- 
ing perhaps of the dark forest from which they 
were brought to bloom in this garden. Perhaps 
they once blossomed for Indian maids long ago. 
The white butterflies float in the sun, now singly, 
now in groups, now lighting on the blossoms of the 
clover that sends its pink perfume into the warm air. 



tBf)t J^orcfjet II 



Then there is the back porch, a wonder-place in 
which to sit in the cool mornings. Sprangly oaks 
and upright poplars shade it, and the grass grows 
greenly to the very doorsteps. Here Mose, the 
colored gardener, he of the excessive pigmentation 
and the white-toothed smile, brings baskets of 
vegetables and fruits, which, if I am so minded, 
I may help prepare for canning. Work on a 
porch is never like real work, because one's tools 
drop constantly from one's lazy hands, the while 
one watches a squirrel frisk by, or gives sympa- 
thetic heed to the efforts of a wren to teach her 
babes to fly. 

I can look out over the cornfields and see the 
negroes working, and watch the corn grow in the 
sunshine, — growing in fact or seeming, as fast as 
the darkeys work, — though that is not excessive 
rate of speed. This back porch is used as a delight- 
some place in which to eat watermelons, when 
they are ripe in Virginia. Mose also brings me 
early plums, a lovely red, and strawberries delec- 
table enough for disembodied spirits to enjoy, and 
raspberries, red and black. The blackberries, too, 
are ripening, and the huckleberries, as the lips 
of small boys unconsciously tell me. Mose brings 
me baskets of big strawberries, and smiles as he 



12 Jfrom a ^outfjern J^orcfj 

says: "Mistis, dey's good enough to make you 
swallow your tongue!" Everything tastes better 
on the porch than inside the house, for there is 
some magic about the cordial air, the quickening 
sun, that makes eating a mild rapture. 

If I tire of the back porch, I may go to the 
kitchen porch, looking out over the tennis court, 
where the quavering foxhound puppies play, 
uttering blithe doggerel. The pine trees come up 
lovingly to the house, and I can see in the back 
the little stream that burbles to itself in sun- 
flecked shadows. Far back can be heard the 
pigpen, from which come grunts of lazy content, 
to match my own sensations, and occasional 
distressed squeals that cut the air when some 
intrusive pig tramples on his brother's toes. Some- 
times I sit here and churn, having in a large- 
hearted impulse offered to help the dark lady with 
her work. Churning is a dreamful occupation, 
for one does not need to work fast. I can pretend 
to read as I splash-splash-splash, but it is only a 
pretense, for the gurgles in the churn, the foaming 
bubbles that come out at the top, the runlets that 
spill over the edge and trickle down upon the 
newspaper spread preparedly upon the floor, are 
more entrancing than black letters on white 



paper. It is an exciting moment when the first 
little speckles of butter appear on the top, and I 
know that the butter is coming. I drop a lump 
of ice inside the churn to make the butter firmer 
and to help it "gather." When the work is over 
and the butter taken up, I sit on the kitchen porch 
and drink deeply of the fresh buttermilk. There's 
no nectar like it ! 

There is also the side porch, whence one has the 
best view of the road, and can vicariously go on all 
sorts of journeys without tiring, stroll through 
the little woodsy paths with the eye, watch the 
diffident boldness of the young rabbits in the 
brush, count the cows that saunter out to pasture, 
flash by in motors or go on barefooted ease through 
the soft dust. No highway in the world is more 
entrancing than that road, because of its naive 
unconsciousness of interest, its indifference to 
observing eye. 

There is likewise the back porch upstairs, where 
I sit in the sun to dry my hair after a shampoo. 
Close up beside the wall is a rose vine, in which a 
song-sparrow has its nest. The little birds, so 
slight, so small, so frail, chirp and twitter un- 
afraid, though I sit close enough to touch them 
with my outstretched hand. 



14 Jfrom a ^outftern $orcft 

With my hair streaming behind me in the sun, 
the Hght bringing out unguessed gold in it, the 
wind playing through it, I feel more alive, more 
elementally natural, than when these locks are 
pinned upon my head in conventional array. 
One's hair has distinct personality of its own, and 
tyrannizes over one according as it is repressed or 
liberated. Who could think of Bacchantes with 
marcelled waves, or nuns with streaming locks? 
Could a woman fresh from the hands of a fashion- 
able hairdresser be absolutely unaffected and 
natural? Could any woman face a situation with 
poise and dignity if she knew her hair was raveling 
at the back of her neck and stringing down over 
her brow and ears in slovenly style? Invisible 
hairpins have lent a visible dignity in many a 
feminine crisis. As Samson was said to lose his 
strength when his hair was cut, so surely woman 
loses her femininity when her braids are shorn, 
— and one gathers vital force when one sits in the 
sun with loosened hair, letting the wind play at 
will through the free locks. 

The morning porches are chiefly for solitude, the 
afternoon ones for society, though all sorts of 
persons drop in on us when we are on the porch. 
Formality is done away with, for who could be 



^fie J^orcfjer 15 



conventional on a wide porch in the sweet air of 
summer? Acquaintances passing along the road 
see others sitting on the veranda and come in to 
find out who they are. Children wander about, 
romping over the steps and tumbling on the 
grass, their little bodies upturned like gay-colored, 
animated mushrooms, vocal with dehght. Young 
girls flutter about like flower petals in their bright 
dresses, and delicate old ladies, still in black for 
husbands or lovers who fell in the Civil War, smile 
indulgently as they listen to their gay chatter. 
A soft-moving colored woman, with a bright ban- 
dana on her head, comes out, bringing lemonade 
in tall glasses that tinkle gently and tempt us 
with their green-minted coolness. 

But perhaps the porch is nicer still in the 
evening, for then no one is working or thinking of 
work. We sit and rock softly, and talk flows on 
like a pleasant river. There is no light on the 
veranda, but the golden beams from the hall and 
the rooms come through the open door and win- 
dows, attracting the wavering moths to the paths 
of light. The moon is rising from among the pine 
trees beyond the lake, shov/ing silver lines of 
radiance on the still water, and touching with un- 
earthly beauty the spires of distant buildings. 



i6 Jfrom a ^outfjern $orcJ) 

Fireflies are everywhere, flitting and palpitant, 
while the glow from cigars tries to mimic them but 
cannot. Young girls are like spirits in their white 
dresses, and young men sitting on the steps play 
stringed instruments with twangly touch, and sing 
songs of love and longing in happy voices. 

But sometimes I think the sleeping porch is the 
best of all. To lie in the open, yet knowing myself 
sheltered, to draw deep breaths of the tonic air, 
to hear the melodic murmur of the leaves so close 
to me, — for it is almost as if I were in the trees 
themselves, since their branches brush against the 
screen beside my pillow,— is a different thing 
from sleeping stupidly inside a room. I can lie 
awake in a delicious drowsiness, and watch the 
white stillness of the moonlight, with the lake at 
the foot of the hill shining silverly, and with my 
mocking bird singing poignantly somewhere in 
the distance. A little rowboat is on the lake, 
with two persons in it, slipping by soundless and 
quiet as if it were a wraith, as — who knows? — 
perhaps it is. I lie awake a long time, for the 
night is too rare to be wasted in mere slumber, and 
listen to the country noises, the baying of the 
hounds, the chirping of crickets, the far-off, 
eerie call of a screech owl, the booming of the bull- 



■ 



tE^fje ^oxtf)tv 17 



frogs in the lake. There is an exquisite transition 
state between consciousness and slumber that I 
am never aware of in inside sleeping. I sleep at 
once more deeply and more consciously in the 
open than within stuffy houses. I am at once 
fast asleep, in health-giving slumber, and enjoying 
the sensations I feel. I sleep, realizing that I am 
asleep, and reveling in the experience. Surely the 
best cure for insomnia would be a sleeping-porch 
in the country ! 

The front porch where I spend most of my time 
is large enough for an enormous family to enjoy 
either solitude or society there as they might wish. 
It is, let us say, fifty feet long and fifteen wide. I 
have never had the inquisitive energy to measure 
it, but that is about what it looks to be. It 
stretches the width of a colonial house, with great 
white columns across the front. It faces to the 
south, looking out across flower-beds and a lawny 
hill to a lake at the foot of the slope, a little lake 
still when the wind is quiet, and dimphng when 
there is any breeze. All about are skyscrapers, 
tall pine trees that stand erect and front the 
heavens with august simplicity. A low stone 
coping that keeps the flower-beds at the crest of 



Jfrom a ^otitfjem ^orcfj 



the hill from being washed away, now is covered 
by a pink radiance of Dorothy Perkins roses. 
June and Dorothy Perkins roses ! 

I look out on a curving nook with pine trees on 
each side of it, and a stone wall behind, with a 
convent seat where lovers may sit and dream. 
A chipmunk, who has his chip-monaster}^ in a 
hole underneath it, thinks it was put there for 
him. He resents anyone else's presence near it, 
and utters little barking squeaks of disapproval, 
quite as if lovers had no place in his universe at 
all. He whisks his ornate little tail over the 
Dorothy Perkins roses in odd disfavor. Chip- 
munks are such egoists ! 

Lucia takes her admirers to the convent seat 
with cool impartiality, seeming to care no more — 
and no less — for the brisk young black-haired, 
black-eyed doctor with his crisp efficiency of 
manner, than for the grave, reserved young scholar 
with his blue eyes looking out with restraint 
through his nose-glasses, and with the student 
stoop common among bookish men who have no 
women folk to admonish them daily to hold their 
shoulders up. The Doctor has lived here always, so 
is no novelty to us, but the Professor is from Boston, 
come here to do research work among old papers. 



tlTfte ^otcfier 19 



Under the roof of my porch are Httle bird-houses 
where the wrens may live and rear their families 
in peace. Wrens have so many enemies in this 
world of small boys, squirrels, cats, and other 
prowlers, that it takes human intervention to 
reduce the mortality among wrenlets and let the 
songs be perpetuated. There are tiny eggs in the 
house above me, this house with a door no bigger 
than a two-bit piece. No other birds, such as the 
intrusive English sparrow, can come in and drive 
the wrens away, so the mother bird sits dreaming 
on her eggs and sings in happy safety. Her 
mate brings her food, the two twittering joyously 
to each other about the future, and the June world 
they look out upon. Like me, they find it good. 

A driveway curves round the house, then 
rambles off down the hill to the road a good 
distance away. It is quiet in the mornings, when 
usually only the tradesmen's carts come up, but 
in the afternoon autos snort up the slope, dis- 
turbing the wrens, and causing the squirrels to 
flirt their tails in annoyance. It is really a much 
nicer driveway in the morning ! 

It is morning. I do not know the hour, nor do 
I care. Here on this June porch in Virginia, 



20 Jfrom a ^outJjcrn ^orcfj 

clocks have no thralldom over me, though other- 
whiles I'm ruled by figures on a dial. ' Now I am 
free in a timeless world! I am alone, which is 
another joy not frequently experienced by me or 
by the other inhabitants of the island on which 
I live when I'm not here. An hour lengthens itself 
out so delectably when it doesn't have to be 
shared with anyone! Isn't it queer how persons 
who would not think of asking you to give them 
money or property, will calmly request of you your 
time, — which no money can replace? A day, an 
hour, what is it but a little piece of your life? 
— yet those who would not ask for pounds of your 
flesh will cheerfully demand your time. 

The porch has been set in order, and I am loafing 
in happy abandon. At my end of the veranda is a 
swinging couch, in which I vibrate at peace with 
the world, as a part of the wheeling planets, with 
a motion as inspired as theirs. I am a planet, — 
why not, if I choose? — with a free yet ordered 
cosmic motion, swaying as I list. Out here in the 
open world I am all things of nature. I am that 
humming-bird, shaking the world with my whir- 
ring wings; 1 am that puppy leaping with winy 
life; I am that darkey in the battered hat riding 
down the road; I am that pig grunting in sensuous 



tKfje ^orcfiet 21 



peace in the pen by the stable, more than half in 
love with easeful life; I am that slanting sun- 
beam down which the gold motes dance. Out 
here life is so abounding, so spontaneous, that 
one body cannot hold all of its vitality. I am 
alive as never before, yet steeped in a heavenly 
laziness. 

Within reach of my indolent hand is a table 
littered with books and magazines, which I do 
not touch. This morning is too perfect to be 
wasted in reading. One can read elsewhere and 
else when. Reading is for the aged and the in- 
firm, and for city folk, who die soon after they 
are born. But I am a porcher now, and I have 
naught to do with books this morning! Propped 
up by pillows and swaying slowly in the wind, I 
gaze about me. The empty chairs look com- 
radely, the little green rockers with their stiff 
backs covered by white nightshirts, the steamer 
chair, the French lounging couch, the big capaci- 
ous rockers and straight chairs, the footstools, and 
all manner of temptations to laziness. Who could 
be anything but self-indulgent on a Southern 
porch? This is my morning haunt, for the sun 
cannot reach me here, and the telephone is too 
far away to torment me. If I hear it at all, it is 



22 ifrom a ^outfiern 3^oxt\) 

as some far-off music for which I feel no responsi- 
bility of answer. 

The other end of the porch is the gathering 
place in the afternoon, with furniture a shade 
more formal, less indolent in appeal. There the 
tea-table is set and the tea-wagon comes trundling 
out when callers arrive after we have had our 
nap and waked to a new world. The afternoon 
end of the porch must always be orderly, which is 
why I hke it less at times. I may not sprawl 
about in a swinging couch or lounge in a steamer 
chair, but must sit up in afternoon clothes and 
entertain guests. The magazines must be cleared 
away, lest I be tempted to read while I have 
company. I am often struck with a perverse 
impulse to read when callers are here, though I 
may have loafed away a whole illiterate morning. 
But that, of course, depends upon the nature of 
the callers. 

There is a big hanging vase of Chinese blue, 
heavenly blue, upon the wall beside the door, 
with Wandering Jew growing in it, whose trailing 
vines stray over the white wall. There are 
flower-boxes of Spanish tiling to match the vase 
and the sky, as well as the rose of the flowers that 
grow in the boxes and the blue of the rugs. 



tlTfie ^orcfjcr 23 



The dogs of the household are not allowed to 
come upon this porch in the afternoon, for they 
are clumsy, muddy creatures whose affectionate 
impulses menace balancing cups and dainty frocks. 
They come to the steps and look longingly at the 
tea-wagon with its sandwiches and little cakes, — 
the foxhounds with their deep humility of aspect 
and their obtrusive obstinacy of manner, the bull- 
dog with his face like a gargoyle, the fox-terrier 
with his thumping tail and eager eyes, the Scotch 
collie with her lovely coat and honest, importunate 
air of devotion. They sit or move mournfully 
about in their banishment, contriving to make our 
guests think we are hard-hearted or considerate, 
according as they like or dislike dogs. Still, one 
may care for dogs and yet have a concern for one's 
raiment, in these days of laundry complications, 
for an affectionate paw laid on one's knee sends a 
white skirt to the wash at once, and a nuzzling 
nose leaves streaks that call for a cleaner's best 
efforts. Dogs are dear, yes, but it is better to fondle 
them only in one's old clothes in the morning. 

I have wished that poor city dogs, pathetic 
creatures ignominiously muzzled, never at liberty, 
looking out in mute protest from high-barred 
windows, slinking along dragged by chains, on 



24 Jfrom a ^otitfjern ^orcfi 

adamant pavements, leaning blase heads from 
passing autos, could be turned loose on country 
porches — in the morning, of course. It would 
not do, naturally, to set them all free on contigu- 
ous verandas, but a few in a place could get along 
amicably and be much happier than they are 
now. 

It is anly on some magic porch or other that 
the lost art of loafing can be recaptured. What if 
that were permanently lost to the world? How 
terrible to contemplate ? On a porch one relapses 
into gentility, — one realizes that it is ill-bred to be 
so busy that one forgets or neglects the sweet 
courtesies of life, that it is vulgar to be always 
in a hurry. It is vulgar because it is self -centered. 
The Arabs, wise souls ! — have an adage that leisure 
is God-given but haste is of the Evil One. The 
Arabs, doubtless, have little earthen porches in 
front of their tents in the desert, whence comes 
their sane philosophy. 

It is only on porches that one learns the sweet 
grace of procrastination, practicing to the limit the 
high art of putting off till to-morrow, some beauti- 
ful, perfect manana, any to-morrow, the task too 
tedious to be done to-day. There be narrow- 
minded, house-souled folk who count such pro- 



^fje J^orcfjer 25 



crastination a weakness, even vice, but that is 
because of the limitation of their outlook. Pro- 
crastination is, in truth, a virtue, admirable, 
acquirable by anyone who wills. How much 
more impressive to he than merely nervously to 
do! Of course, there is the cheap, spurious pro- 
crastinator, he who is new to the thought, who 
hasn't yet realized that postponement is a time- 
saver, not the thief it has been libelously called. 
He, masquerading time-server, doesn't really 
procrastinate, or at least, he does so with his 
overt, vicious energy that is the enemy to easeful 
art. He performs any number of distasteful tasks 
to reconcile his conscience to the putting off of one 
thing he thinks he should do. He will do with 
ludicrous alacrity anything to avoid the one 
thing he dislikes. But he is a mere pretender, 
since he sets in motion vibrations of bourgeois 
energy inimical to gracious ease. 

The real procrastinator, the one with ancestry 
of loafing behind him, puts sour-visaged duty in 
her place, with a smile so charming that she is 
content to be ignored. He has more important 
projects on hand than mere physical or mental 
chores. He must ponder on the outer loveliness of 
nature, must hear the silences of sound, must watch 



26 Jfrom a ^outftern ^orcfi 

the stillnesses of motion, must psycholo-analyze 
the insects. How can he do these essential things 
if he has to be pottering about unnecessary triviali- 
ties? Life is so cluttered up with useless tasks! 
Souls need spring house-cleanings to rid them- 
selves of objectionable encumbering prejudices 
toward exertion. 

Promptness is the thief of time. Most duties 
have no real cause to be performed, anyhow, and 
he who rushes up to do them frenziedly, finds out 
later that he has fashed himself for nothing. 
Procrastination, on the other hand, promotes all 
the gentilities of life that are rudely jostled out 
of the way by the energetic, prompt person. The 
cocksure person who is always ahead of time is 
unendurable to live with. It is on a porch that 
one learns the true value of time. I found a 
charming sentence lately in a theme written by a 
student who is a foreigner. He said: "I think 
it is abhorrible to spend your money squander- 
ously in riotious living." I think it dreadful to 
spend time squanderously in mere work, when 
magic hours were meant for loafing on a porch. 

On a porch the friction of motion and of emo- 
tion are cooled, and a stilling hand is laid on the 
fevered pulse of life. Here one has time to think. 



^Jje ^^orcfter 27 



It is difficult to think inside suspicious walls, 
deafened by clamorous noises, jarred by unceasing 
vibrations. Thinking is an operation that requires 
the open air, the caressing wind, the high blue 
heavens to aid, the friendly trees. One cannot 
meditate amidst the monstrous noises of the city, 
but here on a country porch, the sounds one hears 
are stillnesses, benedictions. Caught up in tyran- 
nic buildings halfway between earth and sky yet 
near to neither, fretted by unnatural sounds and 
motions, poor city beings never can muse, — they 
can only be amused. The cure for nervous pros- 
tration and moral perversion is a secluded porch 
in the country. 

The conversation that human beings carry on 
would be sincerer, gentler, kindlier, if it were 
uttered on open porches with the peace of pine 
trees and whispering waters and candid sky about. 
One would not so readily yield to sarcastic im- 
pulses in the presence of benignant trees, nor 
utter light flatteries, nor criticize in the presence 
of flowers, nor quarrel with song sparrows to hear, 
I fancy. It is possible for us to be our best selves, 
our real selves, only in the open. I think that we 
can be wholly natural only in the immediate 
presence of nature. 



28 jFtom a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

The porch is an ideal place, for it is essentially a 
part of the home, yet a part of the outdoors as 
well. One's personality expands with the far 
outlook. The hermit who lives in the woods 
is not so vitterly cut off from his fellows as is the 
cliff-dweller in the city, who lives too near to 
man to know him or to be known. The ideal 
place for living is the porch, where one may see 
his fellow-mortals in reason, yet be much alone. 
To be in the home, yet in the open, to be close 
to all the pulsing life of man and of nature, and 
yet to be alone at will, — that is the blessedness 
of the porch-life. 

In the city one is so far away from nature that 
one knows when it is spring only by the ther- 
mometer and the florists' windows. The sun is 
a remote stranger, briefly glimpsed in narrow 
expanse of sky at the top of tall buildings, and 
the moon is practically unknown, for how should 
she shine in competition with garish, winking 
signs? The stars are obscured by smoke, and 
are not the friends we know by name in the 
country. The wind is at atmospheric condi- 
tion, not a comrade, as on country piazzas. 
Here, now, as I sit dreaming, the breeze has 
personality. 



tKfie Jorclier 29 



O little wistful wind 

That steals so stilly by, 
So hesitantly kind, 

So delicately shy ! — 

You lightly lift my hair, 
So softly touch my cheek, 

Almost as if you were 
Endeavoring to speak. 

Some secret word, or show 

The ghost of a caress, — 
But would I answer, — lo! 

You're fled to nothingness ! 

I am a Virginian, not by nativation, but by 
visitation, a summer Virginian, and this series of 
porches where I spend my joyous vacations are 
not really mine, you know. They are porches-in- 
law, but I'm not disturbed over the fact, since I 
always did think Dante was illogical in being 
upset over having to go up and down other peo- 
ple's stairs all his life. Loafing on other people's 
porches is a sight easier than keeping one's own 
furnished and in order. Other folks' gardens have 
somewhat the same satisfaction as others' children, 
cars, and so forth. There's no responsibility about 
clothing, gasoline, discipline, or digging, but one 
can just sit back and enjoy them. 



30 Jfrom a ^outjern J^otcJ 



But I find this difference between porches-in- 
law and gardens-in-law. Owners of gardens seem 
more foolishly fond of them than of their porches, 
curiously enough. Householders will permit an 
outsider to criticize their porches, where amateur 
gardeners refuse suggestion of improvement. It 
seems that gardens are more like children than 
porches are. Owners wish no slightest hint of 
even constructive criticism, no comment that 
that rose would perhaps look better yonder, or 
that the pedestal to the gazing-globe is a shade too 
ornate, or anything of the kind. Women are 
as sensitive about their gardens as about their 
children, willing to berate them themselves on 
occasion, but suffering no adverse remark from 
any howsoever close relation. I sometimes think 
that mothers are the foolishest creatures in the 
world, for they are so avid of praise for their 
offspring, yet so hermetically sealed against sug- 
gestion that their progeny are not perfect. Yet 
any given mother will freely criticize other chil- 
dren, will comment on them at will, and even 
grant an unmarried woman the right to an opinion 
concerning them, while thinking it a mark of 
criminal insanity for anyone to hint at defect in 
her children. 



tlTfie ^orcfiet 31 



A mother seems to think that the mere physical 
fact of parturition endows her with supernatural 
wisdom, while on the contrary, it takes from her 
the judgment and common sense she may origin- 
ally have had with reference to children. I 
believe the world would be vastly better off if 
children were separated from their mothers at 
birth and given to other women to be cared for. 
But since society is not yet sufficiently advanced 
to permit of such a scheme, the only other plan of 
wisdom for children is to bring them all up on 
verandas. 

In the city where I live, I have a little square 
of roof that is my own, and which I fondly call my 
porch, gloating over less favored mortals who 
must huddle on stoops or hang over fire-escapes 
to get a breath of air. But it does not serve the 
purposes of a real porch, — it is only a pathetic 
substitute. When I retire there hopefully to 
think, my neighbors' maids shake angry dust- 
cloths over me, my neighbors' husbands raucously 
discuss the monthly bills, my neighbors' victrolas 
try to outsound the hurdy-gurdy in the street 
beyond, while my neighbors' babies cry inces- 
santly. Babies in the city have so much more to 
cry over than those in the country! There are 



32 jftom a ^outjern S^ovtf) 

birds about my porch, yes, — a swearing parrot in 
a flat across the alley, a caged canary on the 
floor below, that sings vociferously, — the same 
that wakes me every morning at six o'clock — and 
an occasional rusty English sparrow that perches 
on my iron railing and chirps complaints to the 
clothes-line. No, a roof is not a porch! In the 
city, one never escapes oneself and never finds 
oneself, never gets away from other people and 
never gets close to them. One's egos are like 
horrible Siamese twins, not separable, not free, 
as in the open. 

I think that the many mansions spoken of as 
making heaven home-like, will be furnished with 
numerous and wide porches. I am trying to be 
very good so that I may sometime go there, but 
if I find paradise porchless, I shall request the 
angels to let me come back to certain porches 
that I know on earth 



II 



ENTOMOLOGY ON A COUNTRY PORCH 

While I lazily lie in my swinging couch on my 
country porch and watch the insects in their 
varied life about me, I mourn over the wasted 
years in which I did not study entomology. I 
should get so much more out of all this, if I were 
less ignorant concerning the biology and psycho- 
logy of bugs, — but even so I enjoy watching them 
in my illiterate way. Possibly after all, the 
amateur scientist is the only one who truly takes 
pleasure in studying nature, for the professional 
must regard it as work, and must classify and 
record his observations for the suspicious eyes of 
brother scientists, while the amateur, as the 
name implies, is one who loves it and looks upon 
it as a joy and not a task. 

I am regretful that in my growing up years bugs 

were not regarded seriously as now. I have to get 

my mind adjusted to the notion of taking them as 

important members of society, since in my green 

3 33 



34 jFrom a B>ontf)tvn J^orcFj 

days they were brushed aside or stepped on 
without qualm. I didn't know then that scholars 
give their whole lives to studying worms, or work 
up a passionate fervor over spiders, or rhapsodize 
over bees. Childhood felt a sympathetic dis- 
regard for these creatures, which adultage scorned. 
I always agreed with the poet who said : 

"I would not number in my list of friends, 
Though blessed with polished learning and fine sense 
Yet lacking sensibility, the man 
Who'd needlessly set foot upon a worm." 

I thought that bugs had as much right to a place 
in the shade as I did, and that we humans should 
have a care for their happiness, but I knew nothing 
of their real activities, their tyranny over our 
destiny. Hasn't modern civilized life come to 
be little else than a fight for life against bugs? 
Even the thought of them is terrifying, as in the 
case of the darkey I heard of lately who went 
crazy because he fancied he had worms in his 
brain. That would be an awful condition of 
affairs. What if — ? but let us dismiss the thought f 
Insects are attractive things and very human, 
or perhaps we men and women are like bugs. I 
have known dragon flies, swift-motioned, gleam- 



(Entomologp on a Countrp ^otcfi 35 

ing; and hornets, unbeautiful but effective; some 
people are like honeybees, engaged in sweet un- 
selfish labors, while others are crickets that only 
chirp; some are butterflies, flashing in the pure 
light, while others are noisome, creeping things 
that lurk in dank shadows. Some persons are 
fireflies, lighting up dark places for others, while 
there are those who are house flies, inquisitive, 
annoying, noxious. There are some who remind 
me of the darkey folk-rhyme which says : 

"De June-bug hab de golden wing, 
De lightnin' bug de flame; 
De bed-bug got no wing at all, 
But he git dar jes' de same!" 

Yet there isn't anybody who isn't interesting, and 
so there is no bug that doesn't repay you for 
studying it. I wonder what insect I am like? — 
my family would doubtless say a mosquito. 

As I lie here quietly, the insects think I am a 
harmless piece of porch furniture and go about 
their activities without fear. They do not loaf as 
I do. While I daily kill portions of eternity by 
studying them, they waste no moments in watching 
me. That dirt-dauber, with his black and yellow 
convict stripes, is building a house for himself 



36 Jfrom a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

at the top of the front door. He should know that 
it will not be permitted to remain, for the maid 
has knocked it down already various times, but he 
seems to have an illogical mind. All insects are 
like that, where human intervention comes in. 
His house is a cunningly contrived adobe hut, 
with little passages inside, where he and his family 
might live in peace but for the catapulting broom 
which has a hundred eyes. He thought he had 
chosen a safe as well as sightly place, but when the 
broom attacks, his house falls to the ground, its 
little secret ways laid bare, a crumbled ruin. The 
dirt-dauber looks like the wasp and the hornet, 
but he is a harmless soul that cannot sting, so 
he has no protection against artilleried broom- 
straws. Now if insects were more intelligent, 
they'd have a league whereby the wasp and the 
hornet would rush to defend the dirt-dauber, and 
save him from despair. 

There is a granddaddy longlegs stalking about 
on the floor, with his stilt-like dignity. However 
can he contrive to walk on such basting-threads? 
I never saw a living thing with such invisible 
means of support, — and there's really nothing to 
him but a couple of eyes, when you look closely 
at him. 



(Sntomotogp on a Country J^orcft 37 

Spiders are not allowed on this well-broomed 
porch, but they can construct their webs in the 
vines a little out of sight and stretch their gossa- 
mer threads across the flowers. The spiders with 
their pot-bellied bodies and beady eyes, are not 
beauteous objects, but a spider-web in the sunshine 
with dew upon it, is one of the loveliest things in 
the world. The colored maid, Tish — her name 
is really Letitia Elizabeth Sara Katherine Jane 
Roxy Anna Cora Tippet Morgan, but we call her 
Tish for short — is careful to brush down the webs 
when she spies them, but she will never harm the 
spinner. I once asked her why, and she answered, 
"Hit's bad luck." 

*' Naturally, it's bad luck for the spider," I 
answered. But she responded with dignity: 

"If you wish to live an' thrive. 
Let all spiders run alive." 

I note in general a closer harmony between 
insects and the colored race than the white. 
Negroes do not willingly destroy any living thing, 
but courteously permit it to live, even if it has 
been convicted of maleficence. Darkeys dote on 
germs, while a too thoroughly hygienic, antiseptic 
world would kill off the colored race in a month. 



38 Jfrom a ^outfjern ^otclj 

Someone showed me an extraordinary spider- 
web the other day. A man in Munich raises a 
certain breed of spiders that spin threads of 
astonishing strength, which he weaves into cloth 
as deHcate as dream, yet substantial enough to 
allow pictures to be painted upon it. This spider- 
cloth I saw had on it the portrait of a laughing 
mountaineer in gala attire, with his hat on one 
side and his pipe in his mouth. How his sweet- 
heart must have admired him! The picture 
was framed with glass both front and back, so 
that one might see the fragility of the texture, — 
and there that mountaineer may laugh for a 
century or so. I wonder why the enterprising 
Bavarian doesn't weave cloth for wedding-dresses 
out of his spider threads. 

There are trench spiders as well as aviators, 
I have observed. The other day I descended 
from my couch to investigate a big hole in a 
flower-bed beside the porch. Pokings with a 
sharp stick educed no information, so I turned the 
hose on the hole, and jumped briskly to one side 
as presently a tarantula came scuttling up from 
its underground home through the drenching 
water. I watched it as it scrambled away in 
retreat, but at a distance, fearful of possible tar- 



€ntomologp on a Counttp Porcf) 39 

antism. I should think, however, that tarantulas 
would have the effect of making the observer run, 
instead of dance. 

While it is difficult to determine an excuse for 
existence on the part of some insects, there are 
others that are obviously pleasure bugs. June- 
bugs, for instance, are most attractive insects. 
It is apparently one of the inalienable delights 
of childhood round about here to swing them by 
strings, to watch them in their colorful gyrations. 
I urge objection to the practice, since I'm sure the 
oscillation can't be pleasurable to the ''Juney- 
bugs, " but it's no use, for these innocent beings, like 
** lightning-bugs, " are too lovely for their own good. 

Bees, now, have some means of protecting them- 
selves. I'd like to see any small boy swinging a 
bumble-bee by a string ! Even the honeybee has 
a dignity of defense that guarantees its safety. 
There are several beehives here, located down 
on the hill toward the south, on the slope so that 
they may be protected from the north wind, and 
near to the lake, since bees love the water, and 
close to the banks of goldenrod and clover growing 
by the road. I lie in ease and watch the bees at 
work among the flowers, — a pleasant enough job, 
if a bee feels he simply must be busy. 



40 ifrom a ^outJ^^rn Jorcfj 

At ordinary times the bees are inconspicuous, 
for they are a- wing among the flowers, scattered 
abroad. Sometimes they come upon the porch, 
if there's a jar of goldenrod here, but usually I 
have to view them at a little distance, as they go 
about their perfumed tasks. But sometimes they 
gather in a thick cloud over the hive, and are liable 
to swarm and go away in high dudgeon. Then 
apparently the disagreement is adjusted, the 
threatened strike averted, and the fly-out post- 
poned till another day. They buzz about sullenly 
for an hour or so, and then go about their chores 
as individuals. Various things are likely to upset 
a temperamental swarm of bees, and as they have 
a Bolshevik spirit of uprising, combined with a 
Hunnish effectiveness of attack, one views their 
movements with concern. 

Honey has more poetry about it than any other 
form of food, it seems to me. The honey is the 
gathered sunlight, the candied perfume of flowers, 
the scent of new-cut grass, the essence of spring 
breezes, the heart of summer days, so that one 
may eat all the summer and autumn in concen- 
trated sweetness beside the winter fire, in a dream- 
ful transsubstantiation of delight. And how kind 
of the bee not to preserve his sting in the honey ! 



Cntomologp on a Countrp ^orcfi 41 

Bees are a constant reproach to me in my idle- 
ness, causing me a certain uneasiness lest their 
attitude toward drones become personal. Yet I 
should love to be friends with them — not too close 
friends, however. I always have thought the 
superstition about telling the bees of any death 
in the household a beautiful idea, but I shouldn't 
confine the friendly gossip to such doleful an- 
nouncement. Why not give the hive a daily 
bulletin of happenings that concern the family? 
Of course, such obvious facts as that the cow has 
a new calf, and that there's a little colt out in the 
pasture, with wobbly legs and a star on its fore- 
head, they can see for themselves. But there 
are other incidents they cannot ascertain, and that 
would doubtless interest them. Why not an- 
nounce betrothals and weddings and new babies 
as well as deaths? The bees would collect honey 
for us with greater zeal if we chatted cordially 
with them at times. I think that all living things 
appreciate comradely conversation. It is well- 
known, for instance, that a cow will give down her 
milk more readily if you speak her kindly, and 
will withhold it if you frighten or anger her. 
Chickens will flutter admiringly about you while 
you talk to them, especially if you feed them while 



42 ifront a ^outfiern l^ovtf) 

you chat. A dog will thump his tail enthu- 
siastically if you tell him anything exciting about 
rabbits, for instance, or rats in a hole, and a horse 
will rub your arm affectionately if you pay him 
sugared compliments. 

I try to get up conversation with the big black 
beetles and those of irridescent green that occasion- 
ally walk across the porch with attitudinizing 
mien. They stalk so haughtily when they think 
they are alone, and scuttle away in undignified 
retreat when I accost them, that it is discouraging. 
They are curiously human in their posing and self- 
consciousness; so much so, in fact, that I identify 
them with certain persons that I know, in the same 
fashion in which I name the chickens, the pigs, 
the squirrels, and all the beasts and birds about 
the place for human beings with whom I am ac- 
quainted. It gives a new interest to the men 
and women. When I see a certain vainglorious 
young minor poet, for instance, I see through him a 
young rooster perched upon a stone wall, an- 
nouncing his importance to the unimpressed world. 
A speckled hen with a brood over which she 
sputters and clucks more than is needful, is to me 
a woman with a large family who used to enter- 
tain me by the way in which she settled and 



€ntomologj> on a Country ^orcfi 43 

unsettled her family in our church long ago. She 
made many a sermon endurable for me. That 
apologetic hound is a charwoman that worked 
in a London boarding-house, mournfully mopping 
stairs and slinking in corners as the landlady 
passed with accusing eye. And so on. 

Occasionally a dragon fly comes up from the 
lake, its wings flashing in the sun, then is off on a 
swift errand of light, to be seen no more. I wonder 
what its part is in the scheme of existence, and if 
its life is wholly satisfactory to it. But then, I 
daresay insects are rarely pessimists, because they 
don't live long enough. It is only the htmian 
young that are cynical, and they recover quickly, as 
if their pangs were growing pains, or cosmic colic. 

The moths that come up in the evening when the 
light streams through the open door upon the 
porch, are like ghosts. All sorts of winged things 
come to the light, big moths with bright-hued 
wings, little silver frailties too delicate for the 
touch of a finger, long-legged devil's horses, and 
angular creatures with the awkwardness and the 
adventurousness of adolescence. Last night I 
watched a little silver wraith, a tremulous, hesitant 
weakling, flying through the gray dusk in un- 
certainty, that lighted for an instant on my sleeve, 



44 Jfrom a ^outfjern $orcfj 

as if to take sanctuary from its unsleeping enemies. 
It fluttered and palpitated there for a moment, 
then was off to light upon the screen in an endeavor 
to reach the lamp within. The silent, intangible 
thing clung there for a second or two, then wan- 
dered off with a baby breeze that beckoned it. 
I wished that I might have followed it, to protect 
it from harm, but there is so little that one can do 
for ghosts! 

When I have nothing more exciting to do, I 
lean over the edge of the porch and study the 
movements in an ant bed in the walk near the 
house. I can sympathize with the man in Theodore 
Dreiser's story, who dreamed that he was an ant, 
and woke up rather regretful to find that he was 
only a man. I have great respect for ants, for 
their executive ability, their industry in foraging, 
and their enterprise in colonizations are impressive. 
When an ant settlement raises the red flag, I 
hastily move in some other direction. 

I never see an ant bed that I don't think of an 
incident that happened when I was in Oxford. A 
young city man had gone out to spend an after- 
noon in the country, enjoying the spring air. He 
walked around for some time, then sat down by 



€ntomolojjj> on a Countrj> l^ovtff 45 

the roadside to rest awhile, till a glance at his 
watch reminded him that he must hurry if he 
would catch his train. He rushed to the station 
and swung into a section that happened to be 
empty. 

After the train had started and the guard had 
made his rounds, the young man began to experi- 
ence uncomfortable sensations, and found, to his 
horror, that his new spring trousers were covered 
with large ants. He had unwittingly sat upon an 
ant bed by the road, and some of the citizens had 
taken that opportunity for foreign travel. He 
tried to pick them off, but was locally convinced 
that there were too many of them for individual 
treatment. So in despair, he locked the door to 
his compartment, removed his trousers and leaned 
out of the window to shake off the ants. But in 
his agitation he shook a trifle too hard, for the 
wind whipped his garments out of his hand and 
sent them careering down the backward track. 

Cold with horror lest a lady might wish to enter 
his compartment at the next station, he stood at 
the window, making grimaces like a madman, 
when the train stopped. All who came near him 
turned away in alarm, so he kept his section to 
himself. But soon he would be at his own station, 



46 Jfrom a ^outfjern ^oxtf) 

and how could he go out? Presently the guard 
came along to investigate the case of madness 
some woman had reported, and the man asked him 
hysterically: "Will you sell me your trousers?" 

*'Not when I have only one pair," was the 
answer. 

**Will you for heaven's sake telegraph to the 
next station to have a pair there for me when I 
get in ? I'll pay any price ! ' ' 

The guard agreed to do that, but the train 
arrived almost as promptly as the message, so 
there had been no time to send to a shop. The 
desperate untrousered man looked out of his win- 
dow to see a grinning official coming with a pair 
of paint-stained overalls hanging upon his arm. 
Some workman had been prompted by providence 
to leave them at the station. 

The unhappy man donned these and descended 
from the train, shivering under the gaze of the 
crowd, clad in natty gray coat and vest, with 
painty overalls to complete his costume. He re- 
flected wretchedly upon how much of human hap- 
piness depends upon trousers, ungraceful garments 
as they are. But he walks no more in country lanes ! 

One of my chief joys in porch life is studying the 



Cntomologp on a Countrp ^otcfj 47 

butterflies. There are numb ens of them about 
every day, of lovely pastel shades, with their 
wings like painted silken paper, some golden like 
sunbeams that have suddenly taken wing, some 
brown like the dead leaves that flutter past them, 
some yellow like vivified primroses, some like the 
tawny tiger-lilies blooming beside the wall, some 
white as the star jasmine on the trellis, some with 
the flaming hues of sunset, and some like the pale 
dawn. Idly afloat in the sunshine, they look 
like flower-petals from some enchanted garden, 
possessing motion and life, so that when they fall, 
instead of perishing, they take on a new, unearthly 
beauty that will not die. Or are they perchance 
the souls of flowers that faded yesterday, or the 
imperishable dreams we mortals cherish, too deli- 
cate to come true, but too lovely to be destroyed ? 
Butterflies have an unimaginable beauty, as if no 
future existed wherein the frost will fade the flowers, 
and the impermissible winds strip the leaves from 
the trees and silence the bird-songs in the forest, 
and fold these fragile wings forever. But is not 
beauty indestructible, and has not a thing that is 
perfect its own eternity of loveliness ? 

I saw a beautiful and friendly butterfly the other 
day w^hen I was searching for four-leaf clovers in 



48 ifrom a ^outfjern ^orcfi 

the grass. It was a wonderful creature with 
wings of lavender blue on top, and gray on the 
under side, with darker shadings at the tips. It 
followed me closely for a distance, alighting on 
the hem of my dress, on my shoe, on my shoulder, 
and fluttering about my head as if in friendly 
greeting. A storm came up that night, and as I 
lay snugly under my cover, I thought with a pang 
of that butterfly out in the wind and the rain. 
It seems to me that there should be some arrange- 
ment of nature whereby such fragile, defenseless 
beings as butterflies might be protected from 
storms, but I don't know just how it could be 
managed. The next day I saw that butterfly or 
its double, as bright and fiittery as ever. Or do 
butterflies really live but a day, and was this a 
new one? I wish I knew. 

Recently I saw a little incident that seems 
unbelievable, but Lucia and the Professor were 
with me on the porch and saw it, too, so it must 
be true. Three butterflies were on the path in 
the sunlight in front of us, gorgeous black and 
yellow spotted beings, one with a broken wing. 
The injured one could scarcely fly, and from time 
to time would flutter to the ground, as if giving 
up, while the others circled over it. But pres- 



(Entomologj) on a Countrp J^orcfj 49 

ently as it was about to drop to the ground, the 
two supported it with their wings, and the three 
flew off together. 

''Could that have been accident?" the Professor 
murmured in amazement, while Lucia insisted that 
butterflies have souls, and would certainly lend a 
wing to help each other in time of need. 

There are no end of interesting insects that I see 
from my porch. I saw a snail out of his shell 
to-day taking an airing in the lily-bed just below 
me. His house was much smaller than he was, 
which fact impressed me by its contrast to our 
modern scheme of tenantry. We who own 
houses have them disproportionately large in 
comparison with ourselves, so that we are tied 
down to them and unable to go about to view the 
world as this carefree snail may do at will. Think 
how simple is his arrangement for furnishing, — he 
is his own furniture ! He has no need for interior 
decorators, and no thought of moving-day can 
enslave his soul. As for raising the rent on his 
residence — it simply couldn't be done ! 

There's the caterpillar that walked beside me 
yesterday as I was picking sweet peas. He 
arched his way between the rows, coming peril- 
ously close to my feet, which he had no means of 



50 jFrom a ^outfjern ^otcfj 

knowing were harmless. Very brown and velvety, 
with fuzzy hair and lovely mottled markings on 
his back, with an inquisitive nose and little black 
head, he wormed his placid way along, apparently 
unconcerned by my proximity. Some insects 
have the apotheosis of dignity. 

I watched Mose, the dark gardener, as he 
worked in the beds this morning, attempting to 
find the mole that has been ravaging the flowers. 
It was easy to see where the mole had been, by the 
little upheaved mound that followed his path, 
but Mose couldn't tell where Digger the Mole 
was then. As he spaded up the earth, he disturbed 
a colony of wonderful shiny beetles, green and 
bronze that shimmered in the sun like exquisite 
enamel. I watched them with envy of their 
gorgeous coloring, and thought how much more 
lovely they were than the earth-worms that 
wriggled behind the spade. I wonder if an earth- 
worm enjoys life. But you never can tell, of 
course. He doesn't have to answer the telephone, 
or write duty notes, or wash dishes, or count the 
laundry. He wriggles out of many annoying 
obligations, so perhaps he is fortunate after all. 
Let us hope he thinks so, at least. 

While looking at the trees through my good 



Cntomologp on a Country ^orcft 51 

pair of field glasses the other day, I found a wasp 
nest in one of the trees not far away, but have 
made no journey toward it. I've always felt 
stand-offish toward wasps. I feel somewhat as 
the little boy in the Sunday school, who was told 
about the plagues of Egypt, that had no power 
to move stubborn Pharaoh's heart. When all 
had been described, the youngster squirmed 
excitedly, and cried out: *'I bet if the Lord had 
thought of yellow jackets, old Pharaoh would 'a' 
come round ! ' ' 

I also take an interest in bumblebees at a 
respectful distance. They buzz about among 
the flowers here, yellow-bodied, with black mark- 
ings, noisy and pretentious, though they are less 
valuable in the social scheme than the honeybees 
that say little but collect honey for others. Re- 
cently I observed a bumblebee creep into a big 
hole in the bank near a pine tree, and I went to 
investigate. I had never seen a bumblebee at 
home before. I couldn't coax him out by friendly 
conversation, so I got my pocket flashlight and 
turned on the illuminations, whereat the humbler 
came out in rushing annoyance. I went hastily 
back to the porch. 

One summer I slept out in the open, on an un- 



52 Jfrrm a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

screened porch, and it was then that I discovered 
that the bumblebee wakes up earHer than any- 
other thing in creation. Before the birds have 
begun to chirp, or the most alert rooster to crow, 
the bumblebee would be going about his buzzi- 
ness, droning like an airplane over my head. 
The Good Book tells us sluggards to consider the 
ant, but says nothing about the bumblebee who 
is the earliest riser in nature. An old man here 
recently amused us by a droning recitative about 
the "abominable bumblebee," the onomato- 
poetic effect of which was to imitate exactly the 
buzzing of the bee. 

I've been interested in hearing the folk-songs 
about insects which the darkeys chant about here. 
For instance, Tish was singing this gem, while she 
washed off the steps the other morning. 

" Oh, de bumberlybee am a pretty little thing; 
De bumberlybee am round. 
He gathers honey all de day 
An' stows hit in de ground. 

Chorus 

Reel, Dinah, po* gal! 

Reel, Dinah, reel! 
Reel, Dinah, po' gal! 

Reel, Dinah, reel! 



^ntomologp on a Countrp J^orcft 53 

One day when I was walkin*, 

I walked across de fiel' ; 
A bumberlybee crope outen his hole , 

An' stung me on de heel ! 

Chorus 

Reel, Dinah, po* gal! 

Reel, Dinah, reel! 
Reel, Dinah, po' gal! 

Reel, Dinah, reel!" 

As old Aunt Peggy came by the other day to 
bring me some huckleberries she had picked in the 
woods, she was singing an old song, a survival of 
slavery times, when the patrol was posted at night 
to catch the slaves who were out without permits 
from their masters. I've heard my mother sing it 
in my childhood, she having learned it from the 
slaves on her father's plantation. 

"As I walked out to my corn-fiel*, 
A black snake stung me on de heel. 
I jumped up an' run my best. 
But I run right into a hornet's nest. 

Chorus 

Oh, run, nigger, run, or de paterroller'll git you! 
Run, nigger, run, an' try to git home!" 



54 jFrom a ^outfjern ^orcl) 

A ten-year-old ginger-cake darkey, one Thomas 
Jefferson Randolph Jones, was weeding the flower- 
bed a morning or so ago, to the tune of The Grass- 
mo-whopper, which ballad runs as follows : 

** De grass-mo-whopper settin' on de sweet potato vine, 
De grass-mo-whopper settin' on de sweet potato vine, 
De grass-mo-whopper settin' on de sweet potato vine. 
Way down in Alabam! 

Here come Mr. Turkey-Gobble-Wobble walkin' up 

behin'. 
Here come Mr. Turkey-Gobble- Wobble walkin' up 

behin,' 
Here come Mr. Turkey-Gobble-Wobble walkin' up 

behin', 

Way down in Alabam! 

An' he picked de grass-mo-whopper fum de sweet 

potato vine, 
An' he picked de grass-mo-whopper fum de sweet 

potato vine. 
An' he picked de grass-mo-whopper fum de sweet 

potato vine. 

Way down in Alabam ! 

Den he smacked his lips an' say, 'You sho is fine!' 
Den he smacked his lips an' say, 'You sho is fine!' 
Den he smacked his lips an say, 'You sho is fine!' 
Way down in Alabam! 



€ntomolosp on a Country J^orcjj 55 

An' I hopes to meet anodder one ob yo' kin', 
An* I hopes to meet anodder one ob yo' kin*, 
An' I hopes to meet anodder one ob yo' kin*. 
Way down in Alabam!" 

The colored folk-songs deal with homely crea- 
tures and incidents and situations, with no attempt 
at refinement, many of them being even less suit- 
able for publication than one I heard Thomas 
Jefferson Randolph, sometimes called T. J. R. 
and sometimes Randy, for the saving of time, 
singing recently. It has for its theme the boll- 
weevil which is a menace to cotton in the south, 
and which has a sort of indestructibility discour- 
aging to the farmer. 

" I found a little weevil 
An' put him on de ice. 
I thought dat dat would kill him. 

But he said: * Oh, ain't dat nice! 
Dis is my home, — Dis is my home ! * 

I found another little weevil 

An' put him in de sand. 
I thought dat dat would kill hmi, 

But he stood it like a man. 
* Dis is my home, — dis is my home ! * 

De farmer said to de merchant, 
*0h, what do you think of dat? 



56 Jfrom a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

I found a little weevil 

In my new Stetson hat, — 
Huntin' a home, huntin' a home!'" 

As Randy chased a microscopic frog across the 
lawn, he intoned : 

"Way down yander on de bank-ter-wank, 
Frogs kin jump fum bank to bank. 
Lightnin' bugs an' hootin' owls 
Are a-singin' songs ob my ol* gal. 
An' de birds an' de winds so high 
Am a-singin' ob day gal so shy, — 
Dat she's so sweet, 
When de moon do shine, — 
Dat gal ob mine, 
Dat gal ob mine!" 

The colored people are much more songful 
than the whites. Music is in their souls, and 
bubbles forth on all occasions. The darkeys have 
a song for every object in nature, and for every 
incident of colored life, as impartial as the ancient 
Greeks in their personification of things of nature. 
Their voices are untrained, but have a wild, bardic 
beauty unknown to white culture, with a power 
to reach the heart. 

One interesting feature of darkey folk-songs is 
their use of repetition, which saves the effort of 



CntomoloQp on a Countrp ^orcfj 57 

composing new lines, of course, a metrical economy 
which should commend itself to such rhymesters 
as sell verse by the line, and which makes for a 
certain monotony in singing. Then there is the 
practice of combining parts of one song with those 
of another, of using one chorus for several songs 
on occasion, and of changing in a way that is 
entertaining, yet confusing to the folklorist on 
the hunt for correct versions of any song. 

I asked Aunt Mandy, our dusky cook, not long 
ago if she could tell me something of the folklore 
of the district, — a senseless question, as I should 
have known. She leaned apologetically on the 
rim of her dishpan, and said: ''Nawm, honey, 
I ain' know nothin' 'bout folklore. I ain' got no 
eddication, you know, — for I kain' even read an' 
write. I ain' never been to school. You mout 
ask Malviny, though, 'case she's got a teacher's 
suttificate." 

On another occasion, when she was telling me 
how to cure a conjure, I thoughtlessly commented 
on its interest as folklore, when she said, with an 
indulgent laugh at my ignorance. "Laws, chile, 
dat ain' folklore! Dat's jes' sayin's dat I learned 
fum my gran'mammy, dat's been handed down 
amongst de colored folks fo' de Lawd knows how 



58 Jfrom a ^outfjern l^oxtf) 

long, jes' fum word of mouth, you know. My 
gran'mammy, she done learned hit fum her granny, 
what wuz an African slave. But ef you wan's 
to larn any songs, you might could see Glorina, 
dat's got a singin' machine in her house. Hit 
sings all sorts ob songs." 

Then Aunt Mandy turned back to her dishpan, 
singing: 

" Possum up de gum stump, 
Coony up de holler, 
Little gal at our house 
Fat ez she kin waller! " 

T. J. R. perched on the lowest step of the porch 
this morning, to rest half an hour after having 
worked for fifteen minutes with a little group of 
willful weeds, and I heard him singing, as he 
swayed his body to and fro in rhythmic motion 
with the music. 

" De or bee makes de honeycomb, 
De young bee makes de honey. 
De nigger makes de cotton an' corn. 
An' de white man makes de money. 

De raccoon carries de bushy tail ; 

De possum don't care 'bout no hair. 
Mister Rabbit, he come skippin' by, 

An' he ain't got none to spare. 



(Entomology on a Country ^orcfj 59 

Monday mornin', break ob day, 

De white folks got me gwine, 
But Saturday night when de sun goes down, 

Day yaller gal's on my min'. 

Saturday night an' Sunday, too, 
Dat yaller gal's on my min',, 
But Monday mawnin', befo* day, 
De white folks got me flyin' 1" 

The small boys about here have sport by hunt- 
ing hornet nests in the woods, and enticed me to go 
with them the other day. One found a nest that 
measured thirteen inches one way and fourteen 
the other. (The hornets were all out when we 
measured it !) It really was a wonderful thing, with 
its labyrinthine little passages, its paper-thin text- 
ure, and its curious shape. Hundreds of hornets 
once had a home in that, and descended from it 
to pillage the country round, till one small boy 
with a rifle brought it down. 

I think I have enjoyed the study of hornets 
more than that of most insects this summer. 
I was lying on my couch one day some weeks 
ago, swatting flies that ventured too near when I 
noticed a hornet buzzing near me. I lay perfectly 
still, as he swooped down after artful circlings, and 
captured a fly that I had swatted and left lying 



6o Jfrom a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

on the couch. Hornet evidently thought it was 
alive, for he took elaborate precautions not to 
frighten it away. He caught it between his legs 
and disappeared round the comer of the porch, evi- 
dently headed for his nest somewhere near by. 
I wondered if he would come back, so I prepared 
for him. I put another fly on the same spot where 
he had found the first one, identifying the place by 
means of a splash of green paint that had dropped 
on the couch. 

In about ten minutes that hornet came back 
and went through the same maneuvers, captur- 
ing the fly by manifest strategy, and making his 
escape with it. He sat oi> the couch beside me 
for a while, washing his peevish little face with 
his front legs, and reminding me of a queer little 
old woman in antique garb, — bent over almost 
double, and with a sharp line of demarcation at 
his tight-corseted waist, and with his black and 
yellow petticoat drawn tight about his ankles. 

Since then it has been my daily task to provide 
flies for that hornet, and his mate who now comes 
with him. I have tried experiments with them, 
placing flies on other spots beside the green paint, 
but its no use. They like the flavor of green paint 
with their food, or else they have learned that flies 



(Entomologp oit a Country ^orcj 6i 

snatched from there are more docile than elsewhere, 
requiring less care to avoid surprise. After some 
time the hornets have relaxed their vigilance, and 
do not go through quite the same precautions 
as at first, but pass more boldly to their prey, — 
perhaps appreciating my co-operation in the mat- 
ter. They never molest me, but buzz around 
me in a social way, coming pretty close at times 
when occasionally I play tricks with them, by 
failing to have any fly in readmess when lunch 
times comes. Hornet will seize a fly and go 
through curious, prodding motions, as if kneading 
it with his bill. The two come back each day, and 
many times a day, to go through the same per- 
formance. Afternoon callers all have to be shown 
my trained pet hornets, and watch them snatch 
their food. If I leave the hornets too long without 
provender, they (the hornets, not the callers) buzz 
accusingly about my head, making me have some- 
thing of the same sensations that I imagine a 
lion-tamer must feel. 

But, after all, flies are the most fun to watch. 
There is nothing in the insect world that enter- 
tains me more than a common house fly. Persons 
who are bored, and who need an interest in life. 



62 jFrom a ibontf^txn ^orcft 



are recommended to take up the study of flies 
for the gaining of fresh impressions. No one can 
plead poverty or lack of laboratory material for 
the observation of flies, for any garbage can even 
in the city will afford specimens in plenty. A 
few hours invested in research work among flies 
will vastly quicken one's intelligence and liven his 
interest. 

The front porch here is not screened, so that 
there are always a few flies about, offering them- 
selves for experiment, and on rainy days there are 
national conventions of them gathered together 
to discuss the food situation. I am self-appointed 
curator of flies, which means that I kill them 
as fast as possible. I slay them in divers ways. 
For one thing, I put out traps, the old-fashioned 
kind made like a sugar-loaf, with cunningly con- 
trived openings through which the fly has enter- 
prise to come, but never intelligence to traverse 
again. The fly hasn't a backward-working mind, 
which shows that logic is distinctively human. 
Or perhaps his defection here is due to the fact 
that the openings in question are usually occupied 
by entering flies. At any rate, when they are 
once in, there they stay, buzzing and crawling 
about in monotonous fashion. When the trap is 



Cntomologp on a Countrp ^orcfi 63 

sufficiently full, I pour boiling water over it to kill 
the flies and the germs they entertain at the same 
time. 

It seems to me that monuments are ill-distri- 
buted in this world. I don't see why a monument 
hasn't been erected to the men who invented fly- 
traps and swatters. Think how many lives they 
must have saved by slaying the flies ! On the other 
hand, I once read in a newspaper an account of 
"the meanest man in America," a tramp, who on 
being refused free food by a certain village, went 
about at night overturning all the flytraps on the 
back porches and setting the flies at liberty. 

Then the swatter is great sport. I make fancy 
strokes or side-curves with the weapon, after the 
fashion of expert tennis players, and have gained 
great dexterity in landing the fly. I swat in- 
dustriously, to keep my trusting hornets supplied 
with food, and to reduce the number of flies. 
When I go away in the afternoon and think of 
those poor lonesome hornets at home with no one 
to kill flies for them, I feel conscience-swatted. 

I kill flies by poison, too. A spoonful of for- 
maldehyde in a saucer of sweetened water will 
suffice, especially if there's something with an 
attractive odor, like fermented grape juice or 



64 Jfrom a ^outftetn J^otcii 

stale molasses, to draw them. Flies are far from 
being prohibitionists. You never see them on the 
water wagon, but just watch how they swarm 
over a truck loaded with beer! Doubtless when 
the country is actually *'dry, " the flies will be 
found emigrating to Mexico or other bibulous 
countries. 

A fly approaches the saucer that inebriates but 
does not cheer, gingerly at first, lighting on the 
edge and disdaining to touch the contents. If I 
wave him away, and pretend to be annoyed by his 
presence, he is spurred to new interest and evinces 
eagerness to taste the drink. He will sip daintily 
but ostentatiously, and crawl about the edge as if 
flaunting his defiance in my face. He will always 
wash his face before and after drinking, but as he 
uses his feet for the purpose, I can't think he's 
much cleaner than he was before. Perhaps he 
does it only for the sake of example, before the 
children or outsiders, and really he doesn't like a 
cold plunge any better than his neighbors. 

Presently, having tasted the drink, he will 
saunter round the saucer and light on the floor. 
His walk gradually becomes a bit leery, and he 
looks sea-sick or intoxicated. He begins to move 
round and round in a circle, the circle dizzily 



Cntomologp on a Counttp ^orcf) 65 

narrowing as his ill-feeling increases, till at last 
he is whizzing madly without moving from the 
spot. As the speed decreases, his movements 
become more sporadic, till at last he hesitates, 
falters — is still. 

On a rainy day, when the dampness drives the 
flies in from the grass and the trees, this danse 
macabre is intensely interesting to watch. When 
several score flies are spinning at once, in mad 
dervish fashion, one grows dizzy oneself. 

The darkeys have a saying that if you kill one 
fly, ten more will come to its funeral, which I can 
believe to be true, for the crowd collects, whether 
impelled by sympathy or curiosity or thirst, 
however, it would be hard to say. When death 
approaches, a fly will turn his face to the ceiling, 
which has always been his sanctuary from a too 
impetuous swatter, and which he gazes at with 
longing. 

I have noticed one interesting fact in connection 
with flies and colored folks. Darkeys are fond of 
flies, and protect them from white molestation 
wherever possible. Aunt Mandy, our elderly 
cook here, is annoyed by my efforts to exterminate 
the flies and seeks to forestall me in devious ways. 
If I press the battle to the gates in her own field, 



66 , jFrom a ^outjjetn jporcfi 

bringing my swatter or my fly paper into her 
kitchen, she grumbles that she is monstrous busy 
and needs all the room, though she never under 
other conceivable circumstances needs all her 
room when I wish to visit with her. She complains 
that screens hurt her eyes to see through, and 
that fly paper upsets her, while she can give me a 
look of cold animadversion when she has to step 
around or over one of my medicated saucers on 
the porch. 

"I never see such a to-do over a few little 
flies!" she complains to the skillet. "What is 
flies, anyway, dat dey is goin' to hurt you?" 

''But, Aunt Mandy, " I argued one day, with 
poised swatter in hand, ''flies carry germs and 
give diseases." 

She rattled the pans on the stove irately. 
**Huh! I been havin' flies roun' me all my bawn 
days, an' dey ain' never hu't me yit! My ol' 
mistis, what raised me fum a pickaninny, used to 
hab us bresh dem away fum de table wid a peach 
tree switch, — dat's all she did, — and folks was 
more healthier den dan dey is now." 

"But, Aunt Mandy, " I insisted, going after one 
agile fly which danced before me, "these flies are 
more intelligent and progressive than they used 



Cntomolosp on a Country J^orcS 67 

to be. These flies now go to college and learn all 
about germs, and read the newspapers, to find out 
mischief they can do. They'll kill us if they can, 
so the only thing for us to do is to swat them 
first." 

She put a stick of wood in the stove so she might 
have an excuse for slamming something. 

* ' Shucks ! Dey 's been flies ever since Old Testa- 
ment times, when Pharaoh was livin', an' de good 
Lawd done put dem here for some good puppose. 
I ain' gwine kill dem, — I jes' gwine bresh dem 
away off en my victuals." 

I retired from the argument, to place a sheet of 
fly paper on the back porch and watch the efforts 
of the ensnared to extricate themselves. Occasion- 
ally one more active than his fellows would get 
away and crawl off, but with a lessened confidence 
in the world. Presently the kitten came playing 
up, and casually stuck a paw on the paper. When 
that stuck, she put down another to pry herself 
loose, and in a minute had all four feet fast 
prisoners. She tried to roll over and extricate her- 
self in that way, which of course only made mat- 
ters worse. 

By the time I could catch the flying sheet 
with kitten inside it, she was a funny sight. I 



68 Jfrom a ^outfjern ^orcf) 

had to wash her with soap and water and a 
brush, since when she licks herself reproachfully 
when she is in my neighborhood, and has not 
ventured on the porch again. I know that she 
went straight to tell her grievances to Aunt Mandy, 
who is feeding her far more than is good, to make 
up to her for her mishap. That kitten reminds 
me of a remark a woman made to me not long 
ago, concerning her discontent with herself and her 
environment. She said, "I'm like a fly stuck on a 
piece of fly paper. I can't get away from myself ! '* 
There are many like her, I fancy. 

I like to psychoanalyze the flies. They are 
very inquisitive, for instance, — eager to investi- 
gate anything, taste anything, crawl over any 
object from a buzz-saw to a bald head. If they 
could record their observations concerning their 
surroundings, science would have new facts to 
collate. Then they are so contrary, always doing 
what you wish them not to ! If you try to take a 
nap, one small fly can rouse you to a state of 
wakeful wrath. If you are trying to eat with one 
fly near, he can poison you by the rage he engen- 
ders in you as well as by the germs he depos- 
its on your plate. Flies are the most obstinate 
creatures in the universe for they never give up 



Cntomologp or a Countrp ^orcfi 69 

an undertaking. They don't know how to desist. 
They are dangerously ambitious, seeking the high 
places of the house, looking toward the ceiling as 
their real home, where only a tall man on a step- 
ladder could swat them. They are individualists, 
each one foraging for himself, with disregard for 
family ties. 

Flies are useful, in providing many a woman 
an interest in life, an outlet for her activity, which 
otherwise might be wasted or misemployed. 
Fly-swatting releases all the evil impulses in hu- 
manity, gives one's antagonism an airing, keeps 
alive the healthy disposition to fight, — yet without 
harming society in any way, — and in general 
provides the same pleasurable thrill that any great 
sport does, like killing wild beasts. An exces- 
sively neat housekeeper, a sort of domestic dude, 
gains as much delight from swatting flies as any 
mightier hunter does from killing lions or ele- 
phants. The desire to smite and slay is inborn in 
man — and woman — and if given no outlet such as 
swatting flies, is liable to lead to destructive wars. 
If the former kaiser had relieved his feelings 
by swatting flies a few years back, the world 
might have been spared much more dangerous 
combat. 



70 jFrom a ^outfiern J^otcfj 



I think that there should be compulsory drill 
in fly-swatting, with all sorts of inducements for 
skill in the sport. There should be developed 
intercollegiate contests, with international meet- 
ings once a year. Fly-swatting affords healthful 
play for all the muscles and would be far less 
dangerous to students than football. Think of 
the different movements necessaiy to kill one fly 
sound in wind and wing, — running, jumping, 
beating with the arms, expansion of the lungs in 
ejaculations, stooping, and high leaping. 

Fly-swatting falls naturally into two classifica- 
tions, according to the motive that prompts it. 
Some women swat from a purely utilitarian 
impulse to rid the house of flies, — while others 
strike for entertainment, as I do. These are 
not my flies, and I feel no actual responsibility 
for their extermination, which fact in no wise 
lessens my interest in the sport. The Doctor 
says that my coat of arms should be a fly-swatter 
rampant, with a trap couchant on a sheet of fly 
paper, and that I'll find paradise dull if there 
aren't any flies there to chase. 

As I watch the flies by day, by night I study the 
fireflies, but with how different emotions! These 



Cntomologp on a Counttp ^orcfi 71 

lovely little things should have a more poetic 
name, I think, for what relation have they to the 
unclean, impertinent insect whose name they 
bear? I often wonder what is the physiological 
explanation of the luminosity of the lightning- 
bug or the glowworm, that intermittent, palpitant 
lamp that seems miraculous yet is a myriad nightly 
spectacle. How wonderful if we human beings 
could have such power of emitting light, — a 
sort of personal flash to be turned on at will! 
How it would aid one on dark streets at night, how 
advantageous it would be for finding lost articles 
in the hall closet, how tremendously helpful for 
locating the elusive keyhole at midnight! Yet 
maybe the cost of upkeep for that light would be 
too great, considering everything. Before I had 
it installed in me, I should wish to have an estimate 
as to how much of my vitality would be expended 
to keep it burning. Maybe the candle wouldn't 
be worth the game. We have no power of know- 
ing what that firefly sacrifices to furnish illumina- 
tion for us. If it only could speak, it would shed 
light on the subject, but perhaps it is ungrateful 
in us to be interested in it, as if it were only a 
subject for light reflection of human life. 

There is no spectacle more beautiful than a dark 



72 :^rom a ^outfjern ^ovti) 

lawn on a Southern night, when countless fireflies 
are showing their dartHng golden beams, like 
little living stars that lose their way and waver in 
a futile search for it. A firefly is alovely and 
pathetic thing. 

Pale flowers of flame 

Torching the desert night, — 

What are you? 

Wandering thoughts that drift 

Remorseful, unrelated, without rest, 

From some tormented brain? 

Burning words 

Flung from wild passion or delight or woe 

To live in visible echoes, silent, winged? 

Palpitant prayers 

Of what unknown desires ? 

Bodiless yearnings, deathless, unexpressed, 

Never to be fulfilled ? 

Ghost moths. 

Ministers from some incommunicable beyond, 

Muted, or messageless? 

Or merely witless insects of an hour, 

Suffering physical change? 






Ill 



PORCH REPTILES 



Why do people dislike reptiles? Is the horror 
of all creeping things instinctive, or merely a reflex 
of popular expression on the subject? Is it be- 
cause reptiles are cold? — ^but that shouldn't be a 
valid objection in warm countries, at least. Is it 
because of a certain sliminess, real or imagined? 
But fish are slimy, too, and nobody despises them. 
Some reptiles are dangerous, it is true, but so are 
lions, for instance, and parrots with sharp beaks, 
and little dogs that snap at your heels, — ^but they 
arouse no shudder of repulsion. Is the human 
aversion to the snake, for example, based wholly 
on the thought that the devil once assumed his 
form, and do we have a lingering notion that the 
tenant still hangs about? Do we loathe toads — 
some of us, T mean — ^because colored persons and 
small boys tell us if we handle them well get 
warts on our fingers? Darkeys assure us that the 
tree toad is poisonous, and that its bite will kill, — 

73 



74 jFrom a ^otitfjern ^otcib 



but is that folk-superstition, or has it any basis in 
science ? 

I had often been hearing the tree toads in the 
trees near the porch, but without being able to 
catch a glimpse of one, as they are extremely shy 
creatures and begin to move about only when the 
dusk falls. They can be heard croaking about 
coming or going rain, but they stay close in all 
day. The tree toad's protective coloring is a 
help to further his privacy. The little thing 
moves so softly that its brown body fairly blends 
with the brown of the tree trunk, and the mottled 
shading of the bark is reflected in the colors of the 
little creature itself. But I was eager to see one, so 
I finally asked Mose, the gardener, if he couldn't 
find one for me. 

Mose's eyes opened wide at the request. 

* * Why, Mistis ! Whaffur you wan' a tree toad ? ' ' 

**I want to study it, — and I think it would make 
a nice pet." 

The whites of his eyes rolled alarmingly. * ' Lawsy, 
Mistis! I ain' wantin' to ketch one ob dem things 
fo' you! I done hear dey's p'isonous. I'm skeered 
ob dem. Ef dey bites you, hit kills you. " 

**0h, nonsense — I don't believe that's so." 

''Wellum, Mistis, I ain' know dat hit's so, but I 



5orcS 3^tptiltsi 75 



ain' know hit ain't so. I alius hearn tell dat hit is. 
But hit mout be lack what dey says abouten frogs 
in general, dat dey 11 kill you ef dey bite you, but 
dey ain' got no teeth to bite you wid ! ' ' 

But Mose never found it convenient to catch a 
tree toad for me, I noticed. Prejudices are so 
difficult of dislodgment, and an operation to re- 
move one from the mind is as difficult and painful 
as a major physical operation. Colored minds are 
particularly opposed to such efforts. 

I notice that most persons, women in particular, 
have a like aversion to lizards. They look jumpy 
when a lizard darts near them — manifesting agita- 
tion of mind and of skirt — but lizards are harm- 
less, useful, and beautiful creatures, which is vastly 
more than can be said of all women. Gila monsters 
are as rare in lacertian as in feminine form, so 
that it seems unjust for their reputation to incrimi- 
nate the whole genus. I believe that the world 
is unfair to reptiles, and contend that there should 
be a revision and reversion of popular ideas con- 
cerning them. 

This country porch, facing the near-by lake as it 
does, and with a brook running like a ruffle round 
the skirt of the hill, is a good place in which to 
study reptiles. I really like watching them. The 



76 jfrom a ^oiitfjern ^orcb 

swinging couch in which I loaf makes an admirable 
point of vantage for such entertainment, since with 
my feet off the floor, I can observe at ease the creep- 
ing life about me. 

Turtles are extremely entertaining. While I 
usually have to leave my porch to study them, 
occasionally, however, one does come to me, so 
that I may porch and turtle at the same time. But 
anyhow, the lake is close at hand. I walk along 
the water's edge, creeping with a reptilian stealth 
toward the turtles sleeping on the bank. I don't 
wish to catch them — I only wish to watch them — 
but they fail to recognize subtle distinctions of 
motive, hence are suspicious of me. On sighting 
me, they slide off into the water, with no sound 
and scarcely a ripple. Fish, now, leap noisily and 
splashily about, but all reptiles have a self-effacing 
manner, an apologetic air that is oddly pathetic. 
They seem to realize that they have few friends, 
and disbeHeve that I am kindly disposed, merely 
a curious woman with no animosity. 

Little turtles have a naive, engaging way of 
coming up to take a look at the world that is amus- 
ing. I saw one round little fellow the other day 
who sat awkwardly and stodgily on the top of a 
floating log, peering with nearsighted eyes full of 



Jorcli l^tptiltsi 77 



crafty indifference at the passers-by. I wished to 
look closely at him, but he was annoyed in a stolid 
fashion, perhaps jealous of my designs upon his 
log, so I went by on the other side. 

I have seen as many as a dozen turtles of as- 
sorted sizes, asleep on one log out in the lake. 
Again and again I have tried to come close to them 
without alarming them, sneaking up with sound- 
less oar in my little boat. But it's no use 1 They 
always hear me, or see me, or smell my approach. I 
think they have a sentry posted on a * 'listening log," 
to warn the others, and when they once discover 
me, they slip down and are gone before I get there. 
When I row up, there's only a cross-eyed log, 
floating nakedly in the lake, to reward my efforts. 
I've thought of leaving a polite little note to ex- 
plain my honorable intentions, but no doubt my 
diplomacy is insufficient to convince a turtle. It's 
disconcerting to be so misunderstood and thwarted 
in my hopes and plans. If I were a turtle, I 
shouldn't be such a misanthrope! I know of no 
basis for their suspicions, for I've never heard 
of anybody's molesting one of these turtles, but 
some creatures are utterly unreasonable in their 
suspicions. I am disconcerted that turtles persist 
in. thinking me their foe — me, who'd like nothing 



78 Jfrom a ^outfjern Jorcf) 

better than to shake their paws and sit beside 
them on a log to chat about matters of current 
interest. 

I love to watch a turtle swim, with nothing show- 
ing above the water but his little round head, and 
with his bright glancing eyes alert for approach of 
danger. A turtle crossing the road in front of an 
automobile is an impressive spectacle. He goes 
deliberately, as if he would not hurry for the 
crowning or the uncrowning of kings. He seems to 
feel that the automobile is a things which therefore 
cannot hurt him, while a woman on foot is dis- 
tinctly to be feared. He is the one wild creature 
that a motor car never agitates. You would think 
from his demeanor that he had a mud garage full 
of the latest makes of racers and limousines, so 
familiar is his scorn of them. 

Turtles occasionally come on excursions up the 
hill, so that I may watch one separated from his 
fellows, and with the advantages of being on land 
instead of in the water. These creatures that live 
double lives are reticent as to investigation of their 
habits. I saw one walking lurchily in a fiower-bed 
the other morning and descended to observe him 
at close range. He stood quite still when he saw 
me coming, for I was between him and the water. 



^orcfi l^tptiltsi 79 



so that he had no way of escape. He was a round, 
dumpy small fellow, perhaps taking his first jour- 
ney away from home unchaperoned. After I had 
waited a few minutes to assure him that I meant 
no harm, I picked him up gingerly to look at him, 
but immediately he drew in his head and legs, 
leaving only the round shell visible. He stayed 
still as long as I held him, but when I put him on 
the ground, he waddled craftily off toward the 
lake. I think it was a mistake for me to pick him 
up, for now maybe he'll be afraid to come back, 
and I'd like to see him again. 

I found a larger turtle once asleep on the bank 
halfway down the hill, where wild ferns grow. He 
was entirely in his shell, save for the right hind leg 
thrown out like a flying buttress. I crept up close 
to him, and squatted down beside him, to study 
him, but though I was as silent as I could be, he 
woke up to find me there. Turtles have a sixth 
or seventh sense where I am concerned. He 
looked at me first from inside his shell, his beady 
eyes blinking nervously. I made no sound nor 
motion, pretending to be the stump of a tree, and 
thus we remained for about five minutes. Finally 
he thrust out his head slowly, very slowly, with 
cautious cranings to and fro, twisting his head on 



8o ifrom a ^otitjiern J^orcfi 

his warty brown neck, from side to side, with ever 
a crafty eye fixed on me. Then he poked out a 
leg at a time till he had mobilized the requisite 
number for escape in case I proved dangerous. 
We remained like that for another five minutes or 
so. He couldn't make out what my litttle game 
was, and I was curious to see what he'd do next. 

His brown, curved back was covered with quaint 
irregular markings that reminded me of the mural 
drawings in the ruined Aztec temple of Mitla, 
in Mexico. His neck and ears, which needed 
washing (his mother isn't a bit careful of his 
toilet!), were of a dark, muddy brown, perhaps 
with some local color from the lake-bank, perhaps 
with a protective shading to make him less con- 
spicuous, hence more secure from his enemies. On 
his neck and head were lines of bright yellow and 
scarlet, in addition to which there was one spot of 
yellow on each side of his head. The telescoped 
skin of his neck was like a gay ruff about his 
head. His front legs were marked with red, but 
no yellow, while his hind legs were all brown. 

When I had examined him to my satisfaction, I 
indicated that the interview was at an end, by 
withdrawing — casting backward glances to see 
what Turtle meant to do. He watched me as 



$ottf) d^tptiltH 8i 



far as the curve of the path would permit, after 
which he drew back into his shell (I was peek- 
ing round the corner of the wall, to see) to finish 
his nap. He hadn't said a word during the 
whole time, so that I couldn't tell what he thought 
of me. I don't know the sound of a turtle's ac- 
cents, though the statement in the Song of 
Solomon, that "the voice of the turtle is heard 
in the land" has always interested me. Perhaps 
modern turtles have lost their power of utterance. 
Of course, I don't hold with the unimaginative 
commentators that consider this a reference to 
the turtle-dove. 

I combined a turtling and fishing expedition the 
other day, going out in a boat with a boy small 
enough to be used for bait, so that I had to be 
careful not to stick him on the hook, in place of the 
grasshoppers he had so diligently collected for the 
occasion. We didn't catch anything, to my grati- 
fication, and the boy's grief. I don't go fishing to 
catch fish, but merely to fish. 

We stopped to examine some small pools near 
the bank, where tadpoles were darting about. The 
child watched them for a minute or two without 
speaking, then he cried admiringly, "Ain't they 
funny little things? — just like bedbugs with tails!" 



82 Jfrom a ^outjjetn $orcfi 

Snakes are great fun, too. I've been much in- 
terested in the shape of snakes, for it seems incred- 
ible that they can get around as quickly as they do, 
with such unconventional forms. I've seen pic- 
tures of the Garden of Eden, with the serpent 
tempting Eve, standing up gracefully on the tip of 
his tail, and conversing affably. I should like to 
see snakes like that! I've seen them only flat on 
the ground, which isn't so dignified — though a 
snake is always graceful. There's always a certain 
beauty about him as he glides across the ground, 
or when he is coiled, a proud humility in his move- 
ments. He's graceful, too, when's he's angry and 
ready to strike. 

I used to visit in West Texas, where it was one 
of the local sports to ride across the prairie and 
shoot rattlesnakes on horseback. (We were on 
horseback, not the snakes.) They lived in prairie- 
dog holes, and could be seen sunning themselves 
on the mounds at the entrance to the dog houses 
— the mounds which were prairie dog and snake 
equivalents of porches. I once shot a rattler that 
had eleven rattles and a button, which means that 
he was twelve years old. 

Snakes were so plentiful on the Texas prairies, 
that men made a business of catching them for the 



^otcii d^tptiltfi 83 



market, to sell them by the pound to museums, 
circuses and the like. Once I went to see the stock 
in trade of a snake dealer in Abilene. He had 
hundreds of snakes in an immense box, and lifting 
the lid, he would pick up a handful of squirmers 
and pet them. He offered to let me stroke one, 
but my interest in reptiles did not extend to fond- 
ling. He said that they were harmless, since he 
had extracted the venom, but he was overcon- 
fident, as not long after my visit, he was bitten 
by one of his charges and died. How sharp indeed 
must be the tooth of a thankless serpent ! 

I haven't seen any rattlesnakes in Virginia, the 
only dangerous specimens about here being the 
water moccasin, the highland moccasin and the 
spreading adder. There are moccasins in the dark 
pools by the little stream, but they don't molest 
anyone who lets them alone. I've seen black 
snakes, alarmingly large, but said to be harmless, 
along the fence by the blackberry vines, but they 
seem as eager to avoid an encounter as I am, so 
we haven't struck an acquaintance yet. One black 
snake was discovered placidly sunning himself on 
the ledge of the front porch not long ago, and 
only yawned and winked his eye at a noisy au- 
tomobile that snorted up and stopped beside it. 



84 jfxom a ^outftetn ^otcft 

And a country neighbor told us recently that he 
had been sitting on his front porch, reading, when 
he heard a stir beneath his chair, and looked down 
to see a big spreading adder, just ready to 
strike. 

The other day Mose, who has a standing request 
from me to bring me anything he finds, living or 
dead, brought me some little snakes about a foot 
long, which he had killed in the coal bin. They 
were hanging over a stick, so I examined them 
closely. 

**What kind of snakes are these, Mose?" I 
asked, twisting the stick around for a better look 
at them. 

"Dey's no-biggers, " he said. 

**What do you mean by that? What's their 
name?" 

"Dat's de onliest name I is ever heerd fo' dem, 
Mistis. Dey don' grow no bigger, you sees." 

' ' That's a dandy name for them ! " I commented 
thoughtfully. "Very symbolic. I've known peo- 
ple who never grow any bigger. I know plenty 
of no-biggers. " 

*'Yas'm, " Mose grinned, as he walked away, 
trailing the little snakes across the stick, to hang 
them on the fence so the rain would come. 



^orcfi i^eptiletf 85 



I fell to musing concerning the unnatural history 
type Mose had suggested to me. Why are no- 
biggers? Why does that certain little snake stop 
growing, when other reptiles keep on gaining in 
length and waist measure? Does he realize that 
he's a case of arrested development — and does the 
knowledge pain him? 

Why are certain men no-biggers? Is it because 
a definite vital element necessary for proper devel- 
opment is taken away from their lives at a critical 
time ? Might a healthy mind become a no-bigger, 
for instance, if married to a bank account that 
necessitated no further exertion for a livelihood? 
Is no-biggemess contagious by any chance? 
Might a husband or wife become one, having un- 
knowingly married into such a family? Young 
ambition is a tender thing easily stunted, and 
zeal may be stultified by a chilly atmosphere, no 
doubt. 

Is one a moral no-bigger because the stimulus 
of exterior influence is too soon removed — as for 
instance when a church-worker in a small town 
comes to the city and becomes religiously qui- 
escent ? It is pretty certain that moral no-bigger- 
ness is contagious, and infectious — so that if 
churches could only discover the antitoxin, all 



86 jFrom a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

would be well. Science has discovered the efficacy 
of injecting certain vital principles into arrested 
physical organisms, causing stunted children to 
resume their growth. Why shouldn't some million- 
aire establish a foundation for investigation of the 
causes and the cure for the mental no-biggers, the 
moral morons? Yet possibly there are too many 
of us to receive adequate treatment. A classified 
list would bring embarrassment in any circle, 
though laboratory research and inoculations might 
be carried on in secret. 

Lizards are another of my reptilian delights. 
They are shy creatures, but they seem to know 
that I won't harm them, hence they come freely 
up on the porch, perhaps because of the coolness of 
the cement on warm days, and the warmth of my 
welcome. I am amazed by the quickness of the 
lizard's motions. He's the swiftest Hving thing, 
I dare say, for if he moves at all he goes like greased 
lightning, while if he pauses, he stops stone-still. 
I have often been swinging in the couch and have 
seen a lizard dart across the floor before he saw me. 
When his bright glancing eyes would spy me, he 
would either dart away at once, or stop dead-still 
to see what I meant to do. I would stay as quiet 



^otcft dSitptiltsi 87 



as possible to watch him. There was one here this 
morning that fixed his jeweled eyes upon me for 
several minutes before he shot away. As he gave 
one last look, he winked at me — I'm positive he 
did! 

Some lizards are here every day, fearless if I'm 
alone, but shy in the presence of a porch full of 
people. Some of my lizards are all green, some are 
brown, some have green stripes down their backs, 
with lighter shadings on the under side, while 
others are of a lovely bronze-green that shimmers 
in the sun. I frequently see here the blue-tailed 
lizards that are supposed to be a rare variety. Oc- 
casionally a blood-red lizard, a salamander, comes 
to visit me, a flashing guest that makes a whole 
day brighter by his passing. I suppose it must be 
rather dangerous to have such conspicuous beauty, 
however, and the less brilliant shades are safer. 
It is a rich experience to me to see a salamander — 
like seeing Shelley plain ! I wish there were more 
of them about here, as there are in the Catskills, 
for instance, where they come out on sunny days 
in early summer, to enjoy the open road, when there 
are few passers-by. When I see one, I think of 
Walter De la Mare's poem, The Little Salamander 
to Mar got: 



88 Jfrom a ^outftern $orcfi 

" When I go free, 
I think I'll be 
A night of stars and snow, 
And the wild fires of frost shall light 

My footsteps as I go ; 
Nobody — nobody will be there 

With groping touch or sight, 
To see me in my bush of hair 

Dance burning through the night." 

The lizards race about in the trees here, too, 
greeny -brown creatures whose color melts into the 
shades of the bark so that only their motion enables 
me to distinguish them from the bark itself. They 
play up and down the big oak tree beside the porch, 
affording themselves and me an endless amount of 
entertainment. 

The quick impetuosity, the darting impulses 
such as lizards and some human beings (notably 
the very young,) show, are beautiful and pathetic 
to me, so that I feel misgivings for the future. 
Does the lizard find that the world lives up to his 
young ideals of it? Does he hurt his swift, lithe 
young body against the sharp corners of life? 
I fancy lizards all die young, for how could such 
a being creep about with age and rheumatism? 

But entertaining as are all the other reptiles, I 
think that toads have given me more pleasure 



^orcf) l^tptiltsi 89 



this summer than any of the family. There are 
plenty of specimens for observation here, from the 
thousands of tiny thumb-nail beings to the bull- 
frogs in the lake. One cannot put his foot down 
without raising a dust of toads here, as lively as 
crickets and as small as flies. How could these 
tiny things come so far from the water? I feel 
that there must be some method of toad-culture 
besides the tadpole school, for these wee infants 
couldn't travel so far. There must be an enorm- 
ous mortality among baby toads, for otherwise 
mortals would be crowded off this planet. 

I have grown especially fond of toads this sum- 
mer. Down in Texas I used to be interested in 
the homed toads, little creatures as round and flat 
as doll pancakes, with horny protuberances over 
their bodies, that go gliding about in the sand as 
swiftly as lizards, and that are really closer akin 
to lizards than to toads. The children used to 
tie cords about their necks and lead them around 
like pet dogs, which was unsatisfactory to the 
toads, of course, but seemed to give amusement to 
the children. Mischievous male college students 
have been known to lead them into class-rooms to 
startle the girls, and eastern tourists buy them for 
curiosities. I saw recently in a book of natural 



90 Jfrom a iboutib^rn $otc6 

history sketches for children, a picture claiming to 
represent the homed toad, which was nothing but a 
lumpish, amiable hop-toad with a little horn back 
of each ear. I consider that persons who write and 
illustrate books on natural history should be ex- 
pected at least to have seen a picture of the speci- 
men described. 

The toad has never been appreciated, either for 
his utilitarian helpfulness in eating insects, or for his 
lovable qualities of character. Those who think 
of toads as stolid, unresponsive creatures, devoid 
of sentiment, are mistaken. Toads have loving 
hearts and show a faithfulness of affection unknown 
to many fashionable pets. I should like to head a 
movement for the cultivation of sympathy with 
these batrachian creatures. 

I like to watch the toads as they lump lurchily 
about in the flower-beds, or sluggishly sleep in 
the damp shadows, or sit still winking their near- 
sighted eyes at me. But for long my interest in 
them was general, in toads collective, not in- 
dividual. For many evenings I noticed that two 
toads of about the same size came up on the front 
porch about dusk, and remained for a couple of 
hours. I thought it somewhat strange that my 
visitors should conform so in size and number each 



$orc{) SSitpHlti 91 



evening, but for some time I failed to grasp the 
fact that they were the same toads each evening. 
I had been studying them, talking to them, and 
feeding them on flies I had swatted, but when I 
awoke to the knowledge that I was having steady 
callers, my interest was enormously increased. 

Touched by their sociability, I became more 
cordial in my reception, more lavish in my offerings 
of refreshment, and they in turn evinced more 
plainly their fondness for my society. Yes, they 
did, too ! Since then, I have watched them nightly 
and gain a vast amusement from them. I never 
see or hear them come, but when we come out on 
the porch after supper, we find them sitting there, 
or else, if supper is delayed, I may look down to 
find the two squatting silently beside my rocking- 
chair. I never can rock with any ease after sun- 
down, lest I kill one of my friends. They appear 
as silently as the stars. 

I try various experiments with them, such as 
turning the porch light on suddenly, to make them 
blink their eyes. I tickle them softly by drawing 
a stalk of Queen Anne's Lace across their backs, 
gently agitating the flower. The toad likes this 
immensely, and will turn his back and sides round 
in turn, to have them stroked. Sometimes I 



92 Jfrom a ^otitfjern $orcf) 



scratch their backs gently with a stiff Httle stick, 
which demonstration they likewise enjoy. They 
are affectionate beings, and squat fearlessly on the 
hem of my dress, hop all about my chair, and let 
me try any experiment with them that I wish. 

I feed them with flies, swatted or steam-killed 
and sun-dried. But it is necessary to give the fly 
a verisimilitude of life, otherwise the toad will not 
take it. He is more exacting on this point than 
the hornets are. Toads have a Kosher regulation 
about having their flies fresh-killed, and will ac- 
cept no cold storage products, however attractively 
offered. So I try in various ways to make the fly 
seem alive. If I wave a fan high above a group of 
insects on the floor, the gentle motion of the air 
causes the flies to move in a life-like manner, and 
the toads leap lithely upon their supper. But if 
I fan too closely, these callers evince a chilled dis- 
favor, so I have to desist. The best method,. I 
have found, is to take a needle and very long 
thread, leaving a fly on the end of the thread which 
has no knot in it. Toady will make a quick spring 
and capture his prey, which slips unhindered down 
his throat, and he feels he has done something 
worthy of praise in getting such a brisk insect. 
Sometimes I merely shove a fly forward with a 



$orcft i^eptilejf 93 



quick, concealed motion, that sends it toward the 
toad, and lo, it is gone! I occasionally vary the 
menu by rolling little balls of soft bread toward 
them, but flies are more delicious so I do not 
waste much time in making bread-pills. 

I have named these pets Nip and Tuck. I can 
tell them apart, though the household refuses to 
believe it — but I have noticed that Nip has an 
almost invisible hair line of white down the middle 
of his back, while Tuck has merely spots. 

It is amusing to watch one of these toads grab a 
fly. He never seems to discover the fact that these 
flies he gets at night are dead, hence not requiring 
the same tactics of caution necessary in the day, 
with living insects. He creeps up behind the fly, 
watches it blinkingly for a second as I jerk it about 
on its thread or wave my fan, then makes one 
quick spring, licks out a lightning tongue, and the 
fly has gone to its last home. Then he settles 
back with a hunch, swelling with pride in his prow- 
ess, the soft part under his throat throbbing like 
the soft spot in the top of a young baby's head. 
Sometimes Nip and Tuck start for the same fly at 
once, though usually they take turns politely. 
Nip shows more enterprise, on the whole, than 
Tuck. 



94 Jfrom a ^outfiern ^orcf) 

The other night Nip acted comically. He mis- 
took a lump of mud on the floor for a beetle, and 
circled round it, waiting for it to come alive, but 
no sound nor motion ensued. Then Nip began 
stealthily to stalk toward the object, gazing fixedly 
at it, and crawling with curious movements. He 
would crawl for a bit, then walk, with a creeping 
lurch comical to see, like a lion stalking its prey, 
in a laughable contrast between his size and the 
ambitious gait. Several times Nip would make a 
quick leap at the lump, but would not attempt to 
swallow it, since he was evidently doubtful of the 
nature of this bug that neither moved nor made 
any noise. Finally, though with reluctance and 
backward glancings, he gave it up, as if deciding 
that lumps of mud are not nutritious. Nip often 
stalks his prey, I have noticed since,, but Tuck 
always confines himself to the hop. A traveler 
from Japan recently told me that Japanese toads 
never hop, but always crawl in this fashion, so 
perhaps there is something Oriental about Nip. 
I recently heard of a Japanese student's definition 
of a frog, as " an animal that stands up in front and 
sits down behind." 

I wonder what is the relation between Nip and 
Tuck — if they are brothers or merely friends ? Do 



$orcfj l^tptiltsi 95 



they spend their whole time together, or simply 
meet by appointment each evening at the nastur- 
tium bed, for their call on me? They are silent 
guests, giving never a croak in response to any 
blandishments from me, but there are so many 
human callers that are oppressively talkative, that 
their silence is grateful. Fanny Burney's diary 
tells of a woman about the court who had pet 
toads whom she taught to croak in different keys 
in response to her questions. I wish I knew her 
system. 

The Doctor who comes almost as regularly as 
the toads, but to see Lucia, not me, has tried to per- 
suade me to let him try tricks with my pets, after 
the fashion of that mentioned in Mark Twain's 
Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, but I indig- 
nantly refuse. I wonder, however, if, as the Pro- 
fessor suggests, I am pauperizing these young toads 
by removing from them the natural incentive of 
hunger to provide their own living. When I ask 
Nip and Tuck if this is true, they are noncom- 
mittal, and since they do not accuse me, I shall 
continue to feed them. 

The tree toads come out at dusk, too, scarcely 
visible in their coats of green and brown, but they 
are not silent, for their little whistling croaks may 



96 jFrom a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

be heard every evening, and in the daytime when 
there's rain. The darkey says: 

" De tree toad, he ain' got but one song, 
* Hit ain' gwine rain no mo' ; 
Hit ain* gwine rain, hit ain' gwine snow, 
Hit ain' gwine to rain, no mo-o-o!' " 

You can tell that a tree toad is thinking about 
atmospheric conditions, but of what is an ordi- 
nary toad thinking, when he looks at you so 
fixedly with his eyes blinking so fast? I'd 
give more than a penny for Nip's thoughts at 
times. 

I caught a funny little frog in my boat the other 
day, a tiny fellow with only one eye, and not even 
a socket on the other side. He was hopping about 
in the bottom of the boat when I entered; I let 
him jump up on one of the oars and I looked at him 
closely. He didn't seem afraid of me, but winked 
at me merrily with his one eye. I put him in the 
water near the boat, but when I held out the oar to 
him, he got on it again, and settled himself down 
for a sociable time. I kept him in the boat with 
me till I had finished my row, then left him in the 
water by the edge of the lake, as I thought he 
might be lonely in the boat all night. He swam 



^orcf) i^eptilesf 97 



briskly off as I stood watching him, as nice a little 
creature as ever I saw! 

I have never made as close acquaintance with 
the bullfrogs in the lake as with the hop-toads. 
The first night I was here, I thought that autos 
were passing during all the hours, and in the morn- 
ing I inquired the reason for such excessive travel, 
to be derisively told that my auto horns were the 
honk-honks of the bullfrogs in the lake. Boys 
come to the water at night with lanterns to catch 
the frogs, sometimes bringing a singer with a deep 
basso who strikes a low note, answered by a watery 
boom. The light is flashed on the spot from which 
the sound comes, and the frog ''croaks** in another 
sense, to furnish legs for a feast on the bank. 

Tish sings several "reels" concerning the toad, 
which are considered to be ancient colored folk- 
lore. I induced her to repeat the following for me 
the other day. 

** I was walkin' 'long de new-cut road, 
An' I met de tarrepin an' de toad. 
Every time de toad would spring, 
De tarrepin cut de pigeon- wing. 

Chorus : 

Pickin' on de bottle, pickin' on de bottle! 
Is she comin' to town? 



98 ifrom a ^outfjern J^orcft 

My ol' Mistis promised me 
When she died she'd set me free. 
But she Hbed so long an* died so po' 
She left ol' Sambo pullin' on de hoe. 

Chorus : 

Pickin* on de bottle, pickin* on de bottle! 
Is she comin' to town?" 

I haven't the slightest idea what that chorus 
means nor has Tish, because the ancient folk-songs 
handed down merely orally have their meaning 
and sound changed sometimes so that it is impos- 
sible to reconstruct the original version. 

A different version of the first stanza came to me 
from Aunt Peggy, the chorus in this case being the 
refrain of another old song, after the fashion of 
darkey folk-songs which often are what the negroes 
call "a mixtry." 

" As I come 'long de new-cut road 
I met Mr. Tarrepin an' Mr. Toad. 
De Toad began to pat an* sing, 
While Tarrepin cut de pigeon-wing. 

Chorus : 

Pretty Betty Martin, tiptoe, tiptoe. 
Pretty Betty Martin, tiptoe fine! " 

Tish was sweeping the porch the other morning 
to the tune of a ballad which I surreptitiously 



^oxtf) l^tptiltsi 99 



took down, which she said was called Who Stole 
the Lock? 

** My ol' friend was as cute as a mouse; 
He stole down to de chicken-house. 
He took all de chickens dat were in sight, 
Den says to me, * My friend, good-night ! ' 

Chorus : 

Well, who stole de lock? I don't know. 
Who stole de lock f um de hen-house do ' ? 
I'll find out befo' I go 
Who stole de lock fum de hen-house do'. 

Down in de hen-house on my knees, 
I thought I heerd a chicken sneeze. 
'Twas de ol' rooster say in' his prayers, 
Singing a hymn to de hens upstairs. 

Chorus : 

As I went 'cross de forty-acre fiel', 

A rattlesnake bit me on de heel. 

I turned right roun' for to do my best. 

An' my left foot stuck in a hornet's nest! " 

Chorus : 

The negro concerns himself more with the un- 
poetic creatures of nature than does the white man, 
while the conventional concepts of beauty, such 
as the nightingales, violets, and so forth are cele- 



100 Jfrom a ^outftern J^orcfj 

brated by the whites more often. In this respect 
the colored mind is more ingenious and gifted with 
appreciation and imagination, less confined to 
unoriginal ideas. It takes more vividness of 
thought to think of a toad or a serpent as poetic 
material, than to string together rhymes about a 
mocking bird, as the hornet is a more novel char- 
acter in lyrics than the butterfly. There is a 
chummy relationship between the darkey and his 
subjects for rhyme that would make the fortune of 
any commercial-minded poet who could develop it. 
But he can't. I think perhaps the reason for this 
difference is that the negro is essentially a child 
who never grows up, whose ideas are never stand- 
ardized by social or literary rule, and who sings 
because he's really fond of what he likes, instead 
of merely rhyming about ideas and things that 
precedent has accepted. What great poetry we 
should have if only children and darkeys knew 
grammar and words enough to express their 
emotions ! 

Postscript. 

Last night a tragedy happened! I was out on 
the porch as usual amusing myself with Nip and 
Tuck, while Lucia and the Doctor were sitting 



^orcf) i^eptilejf loi 



near, watching us. An enormous black beetle, 
with hard black eyes and terrifying pincers, came 
scuttling toward us, whereat Lucia drew her skirts 
about her ankles with a little " Ughf' of alarm, as 
he scudded past her, and the Doctor said, *' Let's 
give it to Nip or Tuck. " 

"Oh, no, it's too large!" I protested. 

"Then I'll cut it up!" he retorted. 

He picked up a sharp stick from the steps and 
with it decapitated the beetle, which lay on its 
back, its legs wildly waving in air, and its nippers 
snapping viciously. Before I could realize what 
was being done, the Doctor had offered that head 
to Nip, who swallowed it with one leaping gulp, 
or at least, he got it partly down. There it stuck 
in his throat, too big for the small throat, the 
nippers horribly biting and clawing! 

I tried to snatch the thing out of poor little 
Nip's mouth, but he choked it down before I could 
get hold of it. 

My poor little toad flattened out, and heaved and 
lurched about in agony, for those grinding beaks 
were evidently gripping his insides. His body 
was convulsed. He would lie flat on the floor for 
one instant, and then lurch unsteadily about, with 
heavings and writhings of his muscles, those two 



102 :f rom a ^outfjern $orcfi 

longest feelers still sticking unfeelingly out of the 
corners of his mouth. 

I watched him with tears running down my 
cheeks. I couldn't help it, to think that one of 
us whom he had so trusted to give him the right 
food, had thus wronged him ! 

I turned in bitter reproach upon the one re- 
sponsible for this. "I think if I were a doctor I'd 
know how to do something in a case like this!" 
I cried accusingly. 

"I don't know how to cure toads; I only know 
how to kill them in the laboratory ! I 'm sorry, ' ' he 
mumbled, yet with a half-concealed grin. I never 
had noticed before that the Doctor has a cruel 
mouth, something like that of a catfish. 

Presently Nip crawled off the porch, tumbling 
helplessly down the steps, one at a time, and crept 
into the violet bed. I followed him yearningly till 
he was lost in the shadows, feeling miserable be- 
cause there was nothing I could do. He went off to 
die alone, and will never understand that I would 
have saved him from this if I could, — but at least 
I'm thankful I had nothing to do with this. The 
Doctor seemed repentant, but I told him coldly 
that his remorse didn't help Nip. 

I shall miss that little toad like a real, human 



^orcf) l^tptiltsi 103 



friend. I wonder if lonesome Tuck will come back 
alone now. Nip is tuck and Tuck is left, as the 
Professor said when he was told of the occurrence. 
Well, it isn't wise, I dare say, to set your affections 
too much on any object, lest disappointment come. 
But he was such a loving little thing. "Hath a 
toad affection ? ' ' Yies, undoubtedly ! And now he 
is gone ! It's a lonesome world ! 

Second Postscript. Several nights later. 

Tuck comes back alone each night now, and 
hops about after me as if asking where his comrade 
has gone. I feed him as usual and try to make him 
happy, but with a mournful heart. I never did 
care as much for Tuck as for Nip, though I hope 
he never knew the difference. 



IV 



BIRD STUDY FROM A COUNTRY PORCH 

I'd rather be a bird than anything else, if I 
couldn't be a human. A June bug, with its joy- 
ous irresponsibility, offers attractions, if children 
wouldn't swing me by a string; an angleworm en- 
joys considerable privacy, yet has little outlook on 
the world; a field-mouse is beautiful, but the winter 
must be cold for him, with no hot- water pipes in 
the ground ; and so few people appreciate the loving 
nature of a toad that I might feel neglected. I'd 
like a lizard's energy and speed, and a chameleon's 
adaptability to surroundings — but on the whole, 
I'd rather be a bird. 

I love to watch the birds from my couch on the 

porch. I can study them close at hand, for they 

are rather fearless — or at a distance, with my good 

binoculars. When I first wake up on my slumber 

porch, the bird? are already aroused, telling each 

other how bright the dawn is, and excitedly saying 

that Mose is plowing for a new crop of corn, and 

104 



Jiirb ^tubp from a Coutttrp J^orcfj 105 

that there are luscious worms to be had for the 
picking up. I raise myself on my elbow, to see if 
my little brook is still there, and sink back relieved 
to find that it is. I have a fear that someone 
might spirit it away while I sleep, — since some 
things are too lovely to last. It says good morning 
to me very nicely from its little pebbly bed, and it 
has had a good sleep and happy dreams, thank you ! 

The family of wrens that have their nest in the 
bird house just over my couch are thoroughly and 
noisily astir long before I get down. There are 
three little wrens, all mouth and eyes, that cheep 
for breakfast which Mother and Father Wren can- 
not provide fast enough. The parents fly back 
and forth with incessant worms, exhaustless bugs. 
As papa or mamma perches on the bird porch at 
the front of the house, there are agitated flutter- 
ings of unfeathered wings and chirping cries of 
hunger and delight. How good is a worm with the 
morning dew on him! How delicious a bug that 
scrambles down your throat ! 

Those wrens are like human fathers and mothers 
in that they spend practically their whole time and 
energy supplying the demands of their vociferous 
offspring, getting nothing out of existence for 
themselves but a roof over their heads and the less 



io6 ifrom a ^outfietn ^orcf) 

choice morsels at the table. Yet they seem con- 
tented, — strange are wrens! 

The wrens from the box on the other side of the 
porch are teaching their young to fly. I arrived 
on the scene the other morning just at the right 
moment to see the little ones flutter in scared ven- 
ture to the nearest tree, encouraged by older chirps. 
What rapturous moment of hazard, what palpita- 
tions of fearful bliss ! One would never have sup- 
posed, merely from looking through a door the 
size of a quarter, or from rocking back and forth 
on the narrow porch itself, that this was such a 
large world. There are so many green branches 
that stretch invitingly, yet they are dizzily far away 
for wings that have not yet learned coordination. 

Father Wren holds a worm in his mouth and flies 
ahead of the youngster, flies till the small one 
cheeps with fatigue in following him, and then 
gives him the worm, while Mother flutters anxious- 
ly about to lend encouragement and sympathy. 
She thinks that Father is a bit exacting with such 
young birds, though of course he means well. 
Whenever the baby stops, the mother quivers 
down beside it, even though Father flies ahead with 
a masculine imperative flutter of the wings as if 
to say, ''Hurry up there, or this worm will get 



JSirb ^tubp from a Country ^orcfi 107 

away!" John Burroughs says that birds don't 
teach their young to fly, but what were those 
wrens doing? They may have been merely giving 
an aviation exhibition. It is fascinating to watch 
each nervous flutter, each uncertain gyration, as 
the young bird attains the limb aspired to. 

Still another pair of wrens from the box over 
the porte-cochere, having successfully reared a 
family, fed them, and given them instruction in 
ground and fancy flying, have dismissed the 
youngsters from their minds and started in to make 
another nest. This time they have moved into the 
box over the library window, like urbanites feeling 
the urge to move at intervals, even though their 
new home is no more commodious, has no wider 
outlook than the old. This is the selfish couple 
that in the spring, having chosen their house, filled 
the adjoining one with sticks and moss, to prevent 
any rival occupancy. 

Madam Wren had her breakfast in bed each 
morning before the babies made their arrival, her 
devoted husband serving it to her himself. Her 
fare was varied and abundant, I noticed, and I 
can testify that he was a good provider. 

Perhaps I am interfering with nature's economic 
scheme when I give flies to the birds. But it is 



io8 Jftom a ^outfjern ^ottfi 

such fun to watch the birds eat, that each morning 
I spread my catch out on the broad stone ledge by 
the steps, and wait to see who comes to partake 
of my hospitality. The birds have learned that 
food will be ready for them, and so my porch 
furnishes continuous entertainment. The callers 
do not understand this clock-like regularity of flies 
that courteously lie down and die, and let them- 
selves be swallowed without resistance, but they 
approve of it. 

The birds come flying onto the porch, then walk 
across the ledge with mincing, finical steps, looking 
alertly about to see if I have any gun or "nigger- 
shooter" with me to menace them. Then they 
pick up the flies daintily, and are gone. The flies 
look like poor imitations of life, for they have been 
swatted out of all recognition, or else steam-killed 
in a trap, then dried in the sun, so they are limp, 
flattened objects, but the birds eat them with 
appetite, as do the lizards and the toads. I am 
always careful to keep the porch swept clean of the 
formaldehyded victims, for they might poison birds 
or toads or hornets, so they are meticulously swept 
up in the dust-pan and burned. 

Lucia and the Professor sometimes help me 
spread my board, but the Doctor will have none of 



Mixh ^tubj» from a Country $otcfi 109 

it, contending that I am making gardens too safe 
for bugs and destroying the self-respecting inde- 
pendence of the birds. The Professor merely 
glances at him with a rather cold look in his blue 
eyes at such remark, and elaborately assists me to 
set the table. Anyhow, I don't think I should like 
to trust the Doctor with feeding any of my pets, 
after his disastrous experiment with Nip. Poor 
little Nip ! — how I do miss that toad ! 

I wish I could offer some refreshment for the 
humming birds, but I don't know how to manage it, 
and anyhow, they seem pretty competent to look 
out for themselves. There is a thick growth of 
scarlet sage against the edge of the porch, in front 
of my couch, and all day long the humming birds 
come and go, tasting the honey. A humming bird 
is grace incarnate, with its unimaginable swiftness 
and ease of motion. It poises on whirring wings, 
dipping its sharp beak into the cup of the flower, 
and making a vibrant humming like the noise of an 
airplane far, far off in the blue. It utters sharp 
little needle-like cries, so low that one has to listen 
well to hear them, but quite audible if one is still. 
Sometimes there are two or three of them here at 
once about the bed, with their translucent bodies 
as lovely as light. 



no Jftom a ^outfjetn l^oxtfi 

The other day a young boy came with a box 
which he said had a present for me in it. I heard 
a faint rustle inside, and asked, ' ' What is it ? " He 
refused to tell me, so I opened the box stealthily to 
see what living creature was inside — to find a baby 
humming bird the boy had caught and saved for me. 

I almost wept as I saw the wee, frightened 
thing, so shaken and forlorn, worn out with beat- 
ing its baby wings against the prison bars, lying 
faint and unable to fly. I took it out softly and 
laid it on a broad leaf in some shrubbery near by, 
out of the way of cats, and left it. After some 
time, when I looked again, it was not there, so I 
hope it found its mother and its nest again, but I 
feel sorry when I think of that wild creature so 
cowed and exhausted. It never can again be the 
joyous thing it was before, with such swift, tumul- 
tuous wings of light. 

The humming birds come out at night to suck 
the sweets from the flowers. Perhaps the evening's 
damps bring out a new nectar, or perhaps dangers 
are less menacing than in the day. One flew across 
me the other night as I lay on my couch, almost 
brushing my cheek with its wings, as it went to the 
star-jasmine vine on the wall. It was dark, on a 
cloudy night, after rain had fallen. 



1 



?Birb ^tuhp from a Country ^orcfi iif* 

There's a humming bird's nest in a tree near by, 
a deHcate, almost invisible thing but clear enough 
when looked at through the field glasses. I found 
it by accident when I was gazing at the tree. It is 
high up, so there's no way for me to examine it 
closely. It looks like a small lump on the branch, 
and only by seeing the bird go into it did I discover 
what it was. 

The blackbirds are decorative creatures as they 
fly and run over the lawn. They run more than 
any bird that I know and can race at Marathon 
speed with dancing movements. They are attrac- 
tive to look upon, with their glossy, inkish plum- 
age and their bright, glancing heads, but they 
have unamiable dispositions. They quarrel as 
they dance insultingly around each other, uttering 
raucous cries, and flapping their wings in vitupera- 
tive gestures. They usually come by twos, but one 
morning lately there were seven on the lawn at once, 
the older ones flying about, back and forth across 
the open space, and calling to the young ones with 
tutorial accents. 

The jay birds are even more ill-natured than 
the blackbirds, for they have a downright vicious 
temper, and can teach swear words to a sailor's 



112 Jfrom a ^outfjetn J^orcfj 

parrot. The darkeys say that the jay birds all 
belong to the devil and spend every Friday in 
torment, carrying sand for their master, which is 
why you never see a jay bird on Friday. I don't 
make affidavit that this is true — and I'm eternally 
intending to find out about it, by watching for 
them on the next Friday, but something always 
comes up to prevent. 

I never have seen more pronounced exhibition 
of tantrums than that shown by two blue jays the 
other day, each holding one end of a long angle- 
worm and contending for possession of the whole, 
with no consideration at all for the sensations of 
the worm. They would momentarily drop their 
victim, to fly at each other with angry, extended 
wings, shrieking accusations. Poor worm! The 
struggle ended by breaking him in two, at which 
the birds gulped, each his half, and flew away 
sulkily. 

There was a blue jay the other afternoon that 
spied a beetle and couldn't decide whether it was 
safe to attack it or not. His indecision on the sub- 
ject reminded me of a woman's mental attitude of 
variableness. The inability of the average home- 
keeping woman, she of the sheltered swirl of 
domesticity in which married women live, to make 



^Rl 



Pirb ^tubp from a Country l^ottf) 113 

a decision and stick to it, is at once ludicrous and 
pathetic. She circles round a decision, she sniffs 
at it, then darts off alarmed. At once wavering 
and obstinate, she is unable to make up her mind 
alone, and she is suspicious of any outside efforts 
to assist her toward a decision. 

I saw an interesting exhibition of bird psychol- 
ogy the other day. I was watching a mother wren 
and her baby on the lawn, the infant fluttering 
about on the grass in efforts to fly. Just then the 
cat came round the corner and sprang at the baby 
bird. I sprang an instant later, but I was not 
needed, for that mother flew in pussy's face, 
flapping her wings and screaming in such fury that 
the cat quickly slunk back out of sight. It was 
like seeing a perambulator turn into an army tank 
in action, or hearing a lily roar like a lion. 

I was watching a couple of birds escaped from 
the nest and making adventurous efforts at flying, 
when Aunt Peggy, who had stopped by the porch 
to chat with me, looked at them with an indulgent 
laugh. ''Dey's jes' lack deshere young folks in de 
house. Dey's so proud o' deyselves 'case dey is 
grown up. Dey ain' neber been grown-up befo'. " 

The song sparrows, or grass sparrows, as the 
darkeys call them, because they build their nests 



114 Jftom a ^outftern $otcf) 

near the ground, are here in numbers, daintily 
small birds that flit over the grass and in the 
shrubbery. They have a soft, sweet song of a 
plaintive minor strain that is beautiful. I have 
often found their nests in the blackberry vines and 
once in the fork of a peach tree in the orchard, not 
three feet from the ground, and in full view of cats, 
snakes, and other foes. But the young birds were 
reared in safety, and made their entry into the 
world unharmed. I took the nest away after 
they were gone, because they would not use it any 
more, and kept the cunningly contrived house of 
grass and horsehair. 

A baby song sparrow was in a tree near my porch, 
just learning to fly this morning. I kept hearing 
a wee chirping that I couldn't locate, though I 
was sure it came from that one tree. I walked 
round and round the tree, peering up into the 
branches, but the small thing kept perfectly mo- 
tionless, only uttering that woeful chirp. Pres- 
ently his mother heard him and came darting to 
where he sat, so that I could see him then as he 
fluttered his pin-feather wings in relief. Encour- 
aged by her presence, he essayed a non-stop 
flight, and swept wobblingly across the open space 
to another tree, where he alighted with gasping 



SSirb ^tubp from a Countrp ^orcf) 115 

chirps of joy, the mother twittering about him, 
praising him for his courage and skill. 

The English sparrows, noisy, impertinent little 
creatures like spoiled children that you cannot yet 
dislike, annoy their more refined cousins in various 
ways. Once a little girl was with me on the porch, 
watching a couple of young sparrows on the walk, 
and laughing at their antics. Finally she re- 
marked, "Those sparrows are cunning little cusses, 
ain't they?" 

The mocking bird furnishes more entertainment 
than any other of the feathered friends about here. 
He is the most versatile and temperamental of all 
birds, and is on his job more steadily than any 
other, since he doesn't even take Friday off like the 
jay bird, and he has a night shift as well as one 
for the day. The mocking bird will furnish more 
music to the twenty-four hours than any other bird 
that ever flew, if he has his freedom and is feeling 
good. He'll even sing if you put him in a cage, 
but less happily, and his eyes may grow dull and 
his song be stilled in prison. A mocking bird in a 
cage is sadder to contemplate than Napoleon at 
St. Helena. 

The extent and variety of the mocker's reper- 



ii6 Jfrom a ^outfjern ^orci) 



toire are sufficient to make a victrola hang its horn 
in shame. The skylark's much advertised un- 
premeditated art is weak compared with his rap- 
tures, and the nightingale, who sings only at night 
and stops even that by the middle of June, is 
fairly bested in his own field by this all-day 
performer. 

Besides having an inimitable music of its own, 
this bird can reproduce the song of any rival. He 
can mimic almost any sound in nature or in art, 
and make it seem more like itself than the original. 
The indignant rumblings of a setting hen, the 
peep-peep of young turkeys lost in the tall grass, 
the profane vituperations of the blackbirds, the 
whistle of the small boy summoning his playmate, 
together with an infinity of other sounds are given 
back with verisimilitude by this amazing bird. 

He is not only mime but ventriloquist as well. 
From the top of a tall tree he will project the 
cheep-cheep of a lost chick, causing the distracted 
parent hen to race in circles round the trunk. 
This joke never seems to lose its zest for him, since 
it never occurs to the hen to call the roll of her 
brood and find out if any are missing. Again 
he will give the cluck-cluck that promises a nice, 
squirmy worm, whereon the chicks come flying in 



Siirti ^tubp from a Country l^ottfi 117 

with pin-feather wings all spread in hungry haste. 
As they gather round the spot where mother ought 
to be, that outrageous joker will sound the hawk's 
very ya-a-a-! in their midst and send them ter- 
ror-stricken to cover. It usually takes the hys- 
terical hen half an hour to recollect her brood, 
and the earth never seems the same to them 
again. 

The other morning I heard a terrible stirabout 
in the garden and went to investigate. I found a 
mocking bird and blue jay on the wall, shrieking 
damnatory adjectives at each other and waving 
contemptuous wings. The jay had the grace to 
fly away at the approach of a lady, but that un- 
blushing mocker strutted up and down as if he had 
vanquished his adversary. 

But he does worse things than quarrel with a 
blue jay. A couple of redbirds who have leased 
the top flat in a poplar tree near the porch are the 
objects of unneighborly annoyance on the part of 
the mocker. When the young husband is away, 
his wife perches herself on the edge of her nest 
and cries in tones of petulant pathos, "Oh, Jim! 
Oh, Jim! Oh, Ji-i-im! Come! Come! Come! 
Swee-et! Swe-e-t! Swe-e-et!" Fancy if you can 
her feelings when from the oak trees comes an 



ii8 jFrom a ^autfjern ^orcfj 

exact mimicry of her wifely appeal. As soon as 
the mocking bird attracts her attention, the un- 
mannerly wretch fairly dances on the bough and 
burbles in glee. 

This bird has common sense as well as genius — 
uncommon combination! I used to think him 
foolhardy to flaunt himself in the face of small 
boys with "nigger- shooters" as he does, not to 
speak of target rifles, but much sitting on tele- 
phone and telegraph wires has given him outside 
information concerning laws to protect song 
birds. 

A mocking bird used to live on our place in Texas, 
that would imitate the postman's whistle and 
bring me out in haste each morning to get the mail. 
As I would stand wondering at the empty street, 
that bird would swoop down in front of me and 
chortle, "Oho! Fooled you again, didn't I? 
Silly!" 

As Mose was spading up the flower bed around 
the corner of the porch this morning, I heard him 
talking to the mocking bird that sat balancing 
himself on a spray of rose vine near his nest, and 
mimicking every note that came from Mose's 
whistling throat. Finally Mose stopped whistling 
to extemporize to the bird. 



JBirtr ^tubp from a Counttp ^orcJj 119 

Marse mocking bird, you sho' am prissy, 

Mockin' me dat way! 
Huccome you gwine be so sassy? 

Ain' you skeered, I say? 
Wid one finger I could mash ye 

An' yo' song away. 

Mighty proud you look, a-prancin* 

Kinder sorter sly; 
What dat tu 'key-trot you dancin'? 

Hopping 'bout so high? 
Sho' kin see de mischief glancin' 

Ez you cock yo' eye. 

Listen now, you's lack de blue jay, 

Scoldin' des as mad, 
Yaa-a-a! Yaa-a-a! What's dat you say? 

Hit sound powerful bad. 
Has you been to torment Friday 

Lack dey says you had? 

Pot-rack! Pot-rack! now you's mocking 

Dat ol' guinea hen. 
Now you's lack a chicken squawkin', — 

Say. do dat agin ! 
Hi, dar, puppies, stop yo' talkin' — 

Listen ef you kin ! 

You am lack a whole pufformance 

Better 'n minstrel show, 
Combination song an' coon dance, 

Eestest thing I know. 
Leavin', honey? Dis our las' chance? 

Does you hab to go ? 



120 Jftom a ^outfjern S^tcfj 



The birds about the place are fond of the bird 
bath which stands in a sunny place beside the 
nasturtium bed. Some one or other is almost 
always there, ruffling his feathers fastidiously, 
tasting the water to see if it is of the proper tem- 
perature, dipping his bill into the basin, and tilting 
his head back luxuriously to let the water run 
down his throat. If we human beings had to drink 
in the manner required of a bird, we should find it 
inconvenient and be extremely awkward about it, 
but the birds don't seem to mind in the least. 
When a bird has splashed about to his content, he 
flies off to sit on some topmost bough in the sun 
to dry his feathers, like a woman drying her hair. 
Sometimes whole families come to take a com- 
munity bath, spluttering sociably together in a 
charming fashion. 

The gazing-globe is another piece of outdoor 
furniture that is attractive to the birds, though not 
primarily established for them. Birds are unable 
to understand the nature and utility of this big 
ball of water that is not ice — how could there be 
ice in the summer time? — and anyway this isn't 
cold ! — and that stands forever without melting on 
a pedestal in the sun. They fly around over it, 
light on it, and gravely consider their reflections in 



^irb ^tubp from a Country ^otcfj 121 

its polished mirror. They trip over it from side to 
side, and then around the base of it, trying to find 
those other birds that move but make no sound. 
They examine the reflections of the lake, the trees, 
the grass, the clouds, and the bright colors of the 
flowers, then fly away as if mystified. 

There is a catbird that is more persistent in 
his curiosity than the others. He comes back re- 
peatedly, joggling his tail like a pancake turner, 
and running over the globe. He grows enraged 
over his inability to understand the thing and 
utters passionate cries, jerking his tail in temper. 
He pecks furiously at the bird that so insults him, 
the evasive bunch of feathers that is securely 
hidden somewhere, — but where? I have never 
seen bafflement so plainly expressed as in the 
attitude of that catbird on the globe. If that 
bird were human and capable of doing research 
work, he could make remarkable contributions to 
science, for he never gives up. If he had the 
power of speech, he could enlighten us on many 
other subjects he has investigated, less elusive 
than that matter of the gazing-globe. 

A red cardinal flashes through the leafage occa- 
sionally, like a flaming thought, and leaves me 
rejoicing in such miracle of color, as in that of the 



122 ifrom a ^outfjern $orci) 

salamander. How lovely to know that nature has 
a few creatures as bright as if the whole joyousness 
of the world were complete in them : 

With a red flare of wings the wild cardinal flings 

His bright breast 'gainst the air. 
In a quiver of light he updarts from my sight, 

And is lost to me where 
The pale, ash-colored evening melts into the far, 
Sphered heaven where blooms the first star. 

Oh, the day, ere he came like a wildering flame, 

Was so somber and still! 
But that swift flash of wings a strange ecstasy brings 

All my being to thrill. 
It was so I knew wings of the spirit, and flame 
Of wild dreams, a dull day when you came! 

At dusk, before the last light of day is fading, 
and when the stars are just beginning to show, but 
before the fireflies shimmer in the grass, the bats 
may be seen stealing out on soundless wings, circling 
the open spaces above the lawn. I have always 
felt a sympathy with a bat, because he is different 
from other birds in being shunned and feared. 
People loathe him as they do reptiles, and yet why? 
Other birds are loved for their song or plumage; 
the eagle is respected, and even the homely buzzard 
is grudgingly conceded to be useful in disposing of 



JSirtr ^tubp from a Country ^orcji 123 

nature's garbage. But the bat is forlorn, so the 
poor thing has to sHp out in the dark, and fly 
about, making no noise. He has the manner of a 
stepchild or of a poor relation. 

The screech owl is another bird that is regarded 
with popular disfavor but that I admire. I think 
that the cry of the screech owl is one of the sweetest, 
most musical sounds in nature. Its mournful, 
eerie voice in the night, when all else is still, is 
uncanny, I admit, with its traditional presaging 
of death, yet it is beautiful in its cadences. The 
negroes believe that the screech owl foretells death 
to some member of a household when it cries near 
the home. You know it isn't true — your reason 
quite convinces you on that point, yet you cannot 
help believing the superstition when you hear 
the mysterious tremulo at midnight. You wonder 
whose summons it is now, and you shudder as you 
put the pillows over yours ears to shut out the 
sound. 

My mother used to tell us of an incident in the 
life of her mother, who was lying alone in her room 
one night, with a baby only a few days old beside 
her. She was watching the play of flames in the 
big open fireplace, when she heard the cry of a 
screech owl, and saw the bird fly down the chim- 



124 Jfrom a ^outftern ^orcf) 

ney , pick up in its claws a live coal from the hearth, 
and disappear up the chimney. When others 
came into the room and heard of the incident, 
they laughed at her for a dreamer. But the next 
evening one of the negro slaves about the planta- 
tion shot a screech owl that was crying on the roof 
of the house, and when he picked up the bird, he 
found that its claws were burnt to a crisp. The 
baby died the next day. 

Women seem to have a natural fear of the screech 
owl, and make no concealment of it. A woman 
living near here is agitated whenever she hears one, 
so that it has come to be a jest among her friends. 
Recently some joker sent her a dead owl, which was 
thrown on to the sideboard after her husband had 
frightened her with it. The next morning the 
cook, thinking it a game bird the husband had 
brought home to eat, served it to him for his break- 
fast. He is now the one who stirs squeamishly 
when he hears a screech owl crying. 

A gray crane lived in solitude about the lake for 
some days recently, flying lonesomely over the 
water, or standing with pensive foot on some reed- 
encircled log near the shore. I wonder what 
agonies of loneliness a bird or animal must feel to 



JSirb Mnhp from a Country ^orcJj 125 

think himself for a time the only one of his family 
in the world. The craving for human affection 
that tame birds and animals show is pathetic, as 
evidencing their sense of need for something out- 
side themselves. Or maybe that crane has been suf- 
fering from excess of society, and has deliberately 
sought a lake where he could be by himself for 
awhile. Cranes are noncommittal, as are some 
human beings, so that one doesn't know whether 
to sympathize with or congratulate them. One 
wouldn't like, for instance, to commiserate an old 
bachelor, when he is congratulating himself on 
being untrammeled. 

The gray crane flew away after awhile, and I 
saw him no more. I missed him at first, but 
presently I was to have a thrill greater than any 
he ever gave me. One morning as I was sitting 
on the porch, looking out toward the lake, I saw 
through the vista of open space down the hill, a 
flock of large white birds, white herons flying from 
the direction of the river. They circled majesti- 
cally over the tops of the pine trees, flew in grace- 
ful lines of formation over the water, and settled 
down on the low limbs of an oak near the edge of 
the lake. Snatching my field glasses, I ran down 
the hill and across the road, to see them better. 



126 Jfrom a ^oiitJ)ern ^orc!) 

They were so lovely! There were seven of them, 
— enchanted sisters I felt sure, bound by some 
spell, whom I might awaken if only I knew the 
magic word. But I didn't! 

I watched them most of that morning, as they 
flitted over the sedge grass and cat-tails by the 
edge of the water, or swept above the lake, or 
lingered on the little island in the middle of the 
water. They would smooth their white feathers, 
preening their graceful necks, and gaze at their 
reflections in the water. 

These beautiful visitants remained about the 
lake for almost a week. Each morning I would 
rush out to see if they were still there, and would 
creep round the bank to get a better view of them, 
lurking behind a clump of shrubs to snapshot 
them. But the click of the kodak always alarmed 
them, so that they were up in an instant and off 
across the water. 

They left in the night, I suppose, because one 
morning when I came out, they were gone, and I 
have not seen them since. I wonder by what 
waters they are flitting now, whose eyes rejoicing 
with their beauty? 

Sometimes I see a slow-circling hawk winging 
its way far above me. If the mother hen spies 



^ivtj ^tubp from a Counttp ^orcfi 127 

him, she calls her chicks frantically, giving a hen 
siren to intimate that the Zeppelin is about. The 
gardener, Mose, gets his rifle and takes a shot at it, 
but never hits it. 

Occasionally a clumsy turkey buzzard, ugly as 
a gargoyle, balances himself on some far fence, his 
ragged wings fla pping awkwardly, his horny head 
held to one side, as if sniffing for carrion. A buz- 
zard is an anomaly among birds, which even a pro- 
nounced bird-lover finds hard to be fond of. 

I love to sit as still as possible here and listen to 
the bird sounds all about. Birdcalls melt into 
other sounds of nature and of the stir of life about 
us, almost indistinguishably, yet if I listen for 
them, and seek to separate them from other 
noises, I have a pure delight. There is music in 
every bird note, no matter how awkward and ill- 
natured the bird may be. That crow sitting on the 
fence and complaining at the scarecrow in the 
field has a musical intonation. The vociferations 
of the jay bird are harmonious when listened to 
appreciatively, and the blackbirds' family quarrel 
has sweet concord for me. I love to hear the 
redbird calling her mate, in a clear imperative 
whistle, that is answered from the top of yonder 



128 Jfrom a ^otitfjern S^oxtf) 

pine where her husband is sunning himself. A 
little ash-gray soul comes from the thicket to 
answer the call of "Phoebe! Phoebe!" as she 
rejoins her disconsolate mate. There is a little 
bird that calls softly, ''Whisht! Whisht!'' but I 
cannot find out who it is — not that it matters, 
however, since it is restful not to know the name of 
everything, and a birdcall sounds as sweet without 
classification as with it. 

The catbird attitudinizes on the rustic seat, 
looking up to give his summoning cry from time to 
time. From a near-by tree I can hear a wood- 
pecker's repetend thrum and see a redhead flashing 
to and fro. From far-off fields come the anti- 
phonal calls of the quails. * ' Bobwhite ! Bob white ! 
All right! All right!" The call of the quail is 
soothingly monotonous. I recall with special 
pleasure visits that I used to make to a great 
plantation near here, where my room looked over 
a vast field of wheat, with quails in it that woke me 
in the early morning. I would steal to the window 
to hear them and to see the waving grain that re- 
minded me of my own prairies with their rippling 
grass. 

The wrens sing about their work, and the song 
sparrows send their soft melodious songs into the 



JSitb ^tubp from a Country ^otcf) 129 

silences. The hen clucks to her brood with varied 
intonations. Someone recently tried an experi- 
ment with a chicken, keeping it in a room where 
canaries were. She affirmed that the chick tried 
to sing and had a musical note unlike that of any 
ordinary chick. Why shouldn't that experiment 
be tried on a wide scale, I wonder? But then one 
might ask himself the question as to why chickens 
in the country, here for instance, that constantly 
hear birds sing, never try it themselves. But the 
matter is interesting material for investigation, 
anyhow. 

I wonder if the birds listen to us human beings 
as we do to them, and try to understand our lan- 
guage. Do they ever translate our remarks into 
bird lingo ? Do they try to interpret our motions 
and emotions as we do theirs? Fancy wrens 
putting into bird dialect the conversation of a 
porch full of women, for instance! 

There are some bird songs so soft and far away 
that I can hardly hear them with the naked ear, 
but they blend into the general harmony. In the 
country there are only pleasant sounds, while in 
the city there are noises. The friction of human 
life seems always to produce noise and dirt, while 
that of nature alone is clean and harmonious. And 



130 jFrom a ^outfjern J^orcfi 

even man-made noises in the country, as the saw- 
ing of wood, the whir of the lawn mower, the swish 
of the scythe, are pleasant to hear, while the city's 
hoarse discordances tire the ear of body and spirit. 
I am impressed with the marvelous reticence 
of nature, so soothing after human inquisitiveness 1 
Birds and flowers and trees never have the vice of 
confidencing, and chipmunks and toads never try 
to worm your secrets from you. Perhaps it is be- 
cause nature publishes no newspapers or maga- 
zines, and writes no books. That lizard never 
really lets you into the secret of his soul, and that 
bat maintains a self-respecting silence concerning 
his family affairs. Yon flying squirrel may have 
horrible skeletons in his tree closet, but he never 
brings out so much as a bone to bore you with. 
Those wrens, though they be housemates of yours, 
and talkative as they are, have the artful grace of 
entertaining without telling their secrets. Perhaps 
it is because they have no hair to let down at 
night. Then is when women reveal things to their 
later annoyance. That, I think, is the reason why 
— if indeed it be so ! — men are less confiding than 
women. Shaving is less favorable for conversa- 
tion, and the fear lest lather get into the mouth 
must keep many secrets safe. 



53irb ^tubp from a Cotintrj> Povcf) 131 

I have always envied those blest creatures in 
fairy tales who had the gift of understanding the 
language of birds and beasts, but I wonder if the 
artful things didn't fool them after all. What do 
the birds and animals think of us human beings? 
Perhaps they understand us better than we do 
them, and doubtless it is more comfortable for us 
not to know what is their opinion of us. But they 
could teach us wisdom on many points, if only 
we'd learn of them. 

The sanity and repose of nature is in contrast to 
our mental states. Did any one ever hear of a 
turtle's having nervous prostration, or an angle- 
worm's going insane ? A bullfrog takes mud baths, 
but not for his nerves, and a cricket never suffers 
from melancholia. Most of our human ills could 
be cured if we'd study nature on a country porch, 
instead of going to hospitals in cities. 

I love to study bird's nests more than any human 
habitation. They are so pathetically frail, and 
yet so delicately and cunningly contrived to shield 
the tiny occupant from wind and rain ! A bird's 
nest that has fallen to the ground after a storm has 
power to touch me to tears. It seems a living 
thing itself, that must have suffered and been 
afraid in the darkness and gale. 



132 Jfrom a ^outfjern J^orci) 

The song sparrow builds near the ground, while 
the wren seeks protection of some human house. 
The mocking bird has a home anywhere, in a tree 
or in a tangle of rose vine. A mocking bird has a 
nest in the Cherokee rose vine here, where it is 
secure in the thorn-guarded recesses and sings 
impudently about it to cats and whoever may 
hear. A crow's nest has a casual slatternliness 
about it in contrast to the finical ways of more 
dainty birds. A crow merely throws a few sticks 
together and calls it a nest, apparently careless as 
to whether the babies fall out or not, and indiffer- 
ent to the hardness of the bed. I saw one the 
other day, made of sticks and grass, with five 
speckled eggs in it. 

A boy brought me a wood pee wee's nest the other 
day, a little elongated, pensile thing, a delicate 
structure of moss and wood fiber and wool from 
the sheep's backs, a fairy home. Once in California 
I saw in the shade of an arc light on the street, 
a Baltimore oriole's nest. When the light was 
on, one could see the mother bird sitting on her 
nest with her head tucked under wing, fast 
asleep, or else with her eyes wide open to see 
what was going on. She was indifferent to the 
^lare of the light and to the gaze of the passer- 



?8irb ^tuhp from a Countrp ^orcfi 133 

by. An interesting example of light housekeep- 
ing, that! 

I saw the other day a wonderful bird house that 
an inmate of the state farm near by had made. 
It is an elaborate structure, with cupolas, with 
porches all around the house, and with various 
floors. In the different rooms different sorts of 
birds make their home, so that it is like a city 
apartment. I don't think I care for the birds to 
imitate our crowded habits of living, and think it 
would be more sensible if human beings imitated 
nests — though when the wild winds blow, the 
houses are safer, I admit. I should like to live in 
a tree myself, on a little platform with a roof over- 
head. But after all, a porch with trees beside it is 
more habitable, on the whole. I am afraid I 
should find a nest a bit crowded — I being less 
adaptable than a bird. 



V 



BOTANIZING FROM A COUNTRY PORCH 

One of the joys of porching is that things come 
to you. Persons who go out into the world to 
seek adventure or knowledge, who turn life over in 
the attempt to make things happen, to discover 
how they work, are victims of their own misguided 
energy. They would get ahead much faster if 
they would stand still. Loafing is an art few 
mortals know how to recapture. Animals know 
it, and children, and college students, but hardly 
anyone past his diplomage. The fevered impulse 
of the time drives one to be doing something — not 
constructive tasks necessarily, but anything to 
keep the mind and body from resting. Persons 
who would scorn useful work of any kind, give 
themselves brain fag by arduous efforts at enter- 
tainment. They seem to think that if they al- 
lowed themselves one moment for reposeful 
thought, some emptiness within would drive them 
mad. Death is the first opportunity for loafing 

134 



?Sotani>mg from a Countrp ^orcfi 135 

that some mortals allow themselves — and they'd 
dodge that if they could. 

As for myself, I've determined that I shall get 
rested before I die so that I may be fresh for what- 
ever adventure offers itself on the other side. 
Illogically, I always prefer to rest at the wrong 
times — dearly loving, for example, to loaf on 
Monday morning when shrewish duties cry out 
upon me for accomplishment. I joy in dawdling 
over my breakfast and the morning paper while 
laundry shrieks to be counted, and other house- 
wifely tasks assail in vain my Southern conscience. 
I'm glad I'm not a New Englander! 

After all, loafing is the really important object 
in life. I love to lie abed till late o'clock, and if 
I tell myself at times, "You should get up," 
myself tells me, "Why so?" Suppose I get up 
and work an hour and earn money — what could I 
buy with that sum "one half so precious" as the 
leisure I should barter for it? 

I once heard of an idiot boy, physically strong 
enough for work, but steadfast in his refusal to en- 
gage in it. When asked to perform any task, he 
would smile a crafty smile, and say, "What's the 
use?" I think that boy was wise beyond his 
fellows, and his intelligent question might well be 



136 iftom a ^otitfjern ^orct 

projected into many a discussion. We fash our- 
selves doing many things we'd leave undone, if we 
asked ourselves, "What's the use?" 

But as I was saying, the person who waits re- 
posefully on life gets what he wishes and has the 
joy of loafing thrown in as lagniappe. Now I de- 
light to botanize, though — or perhaps because — I 
am comfortably ignorant of the subject. (Igno- 
rance is as soothing as a down pillow and is my 
refuge in many an emergency.) Yet plodding 
about through wet grass on the trail of truant 
flowers and elusive weeds is arduous, and on the 
whole unprofitable. I prefer the f atigueless sport 
of sitting still and botanizing with the eye and a 
pair of good field-glasses. What I can't see in one 
day will to-morrow be brought to my porch by 
some assistful friend more agile of foot than am I. 
I take a chuckleful delight in seeing how the world 
serves a lazy person — as if pleblian energy paid 
tribute to aristocracy of ease. If someone in my 
hearing mentions plant or flower that is unknown 
to me, all I need do is to murmur longingly, 
"How I'd love to see that! Do you know where 
it grows?" Next day it will be laid on my couch 
with explanatory comment, and I can give all my 
mental force to admiring it, whereas if I had 



JSotanijing from a Counttp ^orcfj 137 

trudged on tired feet to find it, I should probably 
be cross and disappointed on seeing it. I also 
take pleasure in not knowing the technical names 
of growing things, since the unfamiliar plant, like 
the song of an unknown bird, has a special charm 
for my unerudite ear. 

Porch gardening is delightful, for one digs only 
with speculative gaze, and gathers the harvest 
of beauty without toil of hands. Gardens-in-law 
are enjoyable, since one may take pleasure in them 
without responsibility for wielding the spade, or 
even directing hired hands. 

As I lie restfully on this quiet porch, I watch the 
days swing by, recorded in this calendared garden 
before me. I may even tell the time of day and 
count the hours by the morning-glories, the moon- 
flowers, the four-o' clocks, and such methodical, 
regular- habited blossoms. I can note the flowers 
close their eyes in sleep — as the daisies for instance, 
and open gayly in the morning with dew-washed 
little faces. The sweet-scented days go by as 
a dream-pageant, and the cloaked and hooded 
evenings are a masque of shadows, each like to the 
others, yet with its subtle difference of delight. 
I know not which is most beautiful, the June riot 
of roses and of daisy-snowed fields, the loveliness 



138 jfrom a ^outftern $orc!) 

of Queen Anne's lace in midsummer, or the Mid- 
das miracle of goldenrod in the autumn. Which is 
most to be admired, the masculine serenity and 
strength of a pine tree, or the feminine grace of a 
vine that tactfully covers up barrenness and 
ugliness, or the childlike appeal in the face of a wild 
flower? 

I have always felt a sneaking fellowship with 
Ahaz, who, as the Bible tells us, burnt incense in 
high places, and on the hills, and under every 
green tree. It was idolatrous, hence reprehensible, 
of course, but I don't hold it against him, for I 
burn incense in my heart under every green tree. 
Such benignant beauty stirs in me a rapturous 
worship, for trees seem to me the most majestic 
of all growing things in nature and the most 
abiding. Gra-ss and flowers are lovely, but they 
fade and pass, while a tree is permanent, more so 
than man. Trees last while generations of 
men live their ephemeral lives and are for 
gotten. Down in Mexico is a living tree, the 
oldest in the world, a giant cypress that was cen- 
turies old when Christ underwent His Passion 
beneath the olive trees in the garden. That tree 
has lived through eras of which man's record is but 
dim and doubtful, yet to-day it stands, and will 



JSotani^mg from a Country ^orcf) 139 

outlive the lives of generations after we are 
gone. 

Yet despite man's pettiness and nature's majes- 
tic permanence, despite the fact that man is but 
a midge that frets about a mighty tree, he has the 
power to destroy its life. How incomprehensible ! 
We human beings hew down trees that we may use 
their fiber to print our trifling books upon, but 
what volumes are worth the trees destroyed to 
print them? Is not the rustle of green, living 
leaves in the forest more to be desired than the 
dry flutter of bleached leaves in a book, covered 
with black letters like fidgeting flies? Think of 
slaying happy trees to publish congressional re- 
ports, for instance, or doctorate dissertations that 
count the commas in some forgotten manuscripts, 
or learned altercations over dead philosophies! 
Think how clean-hearted, pure-fibered trees must 
feel over being stained with erotic stories, at being 
corrupted by garbage journalism! There should 
be laws passed to prevent such cruelty to trees, 
such witless barter of beauty for dust and ashes. 

I think trees do not mind being hewn down to 
make homes for men and women to live in, places 
to shelter little children, but they must wave their 
arms in unavailing protest in the night when they 



140 Jftom a ^outijern l^ottf) 

think of being made the pages for man's unclean 
imaginings and cynic sneers. I often think of 
Joyce Kilmer's lines, 

Poetry's made by fools like me, 
But only God could make a tree! 

I lie for hours at a time, watching the pine trees, 
with their green everlastingness, their dignity of 
permanence in a world of change. What do they 
think of as they stand there, their roots searching 
the secrets of the earth, their tops touched with 
sunlight? They watch the white clouds form and 
change in the blue heavens ; they know the passing 
of migrant birds that rest for awhile in their 
branches ; they share in the loves of home-keeping 
birds that build their homes in safety in those 
green fastnesses. The squirrels, gray ones and 
red, chase each other chattering through the 
branches all day, and flying squirrels make their 
darting leaps to safety in those arms. The pine 
trees are indulgent to all the young life about them, 
as if they knew how brief the playtime is. 

On the slope of the hill and across the road are 
cedars, richly green. As I look at them, I think 
of Algernon Blackwood's account of the cedar, 



JSirb ^tuhp from a Country ^orcft 141 

in The Man Whom the Trees Loved, as being more 
friendly to man than any other, protecting him 
against sinister forest forces. The hill is covered 
with trees, tulip poplars that lately were gay with 
lovely blossoms; chestnuts that had their gorgeous 
blooms that have faded now ; holly trees with their 
bright, thorny leaves; oaks of various kinds, and 
many others. 

The big oak by the porch is full of constant 
interest for me. Tree toads live in its hollows, 
and flying squirrels play about its branches, mak- 
ing daring efforts to leap into the bird nests to 
pillage. The lizards run up and down its gray, 
gnarled trunk. From the hickory trees out in the 
open, the green nuts are falling to the ground, 
startling the grass with their suddenness of de- 
scent. Great copper beeches stretch their limbs, 
green now, but lately glowing with a wonderful 
shimmering coppery shade. I can never forget 
the glory of the copper beeches one springtime in 
Oxford! 

In the open sunlight are mimosa or acacia trees, 
with their leaves whose delicate tracery is like 
that of ferns, and whose pink blossoms are like the 
pompons of the sensitive plant, delicately soft and 
perfumed. In the full sunlight magnolias are 



142 Jfrom a ^outljern ^orcfi 

blooming. Surely a magnolia in blossom is the 
most beautiful tree in the world ! The leaves, wide 
and long, are as glossy as exquisite enameling in 
their rich green. The blossoms, opening to the 
sun, great perfumed whitenesses with jasmine 
delicacy and sweetness, are like flowers seen in 
some happy dream. A magnolia blossom is like 
moonlight taking flower-shape. The petals are so 
sensitive that one alien touch will turn them dark, 
defacing their beauty. As the flower fades, the 
petals drop one by one, leaving the golden heart 
bare. 

Magnolia leaves will remain green for a long 
time, even when they are picked from the tree, 
and after they turn brown, they keep their shape 
indefinitely. While the leaf is fresh, one may write 
on it with a sharp twig or instrument and the writ- 
ing stands out plainly even when the leaf is brown 
and dead. I saw a wreath of magnolia leaves laid 
on Shakespeare's tomb on his birthday once, with 
messages of reverence from some admirer in the 
South, our South, where the magnolias grow. 
How Shakespeare would have loved a magnolia 
tree! 

As I look at these trees about me, I feel that the 
Greeks were right in thinking that the trees had 



JJotani^ing from a Country ^orcfj 145 

spirits, in visioning a beautiful maiden in the heart 
of each forest miracle. I look for dryad flutterings, 
but in vain. I hear faint, elfin chuckles in the 
woods, but glimpse no fleeing shapes. What pre- 
ences are round me that I cannot hear or see? 
The bodiless wind allures me ; the mist lies over the 
lake, touching the forms of the trees to a fainter, 
more shadowy grace, but I cannot tell if it be only 
mist or the floating of some filmy drapery. A 
little white butterfly drifts up as if it would tell me 
what I wish, but it is so shy it flits away again 
before my dulled senses grasp its thought. The 
pine trees murmur in another language than my 
own, and I do not know the meaning of that sweet, 
prelusory call from the topmost branch of the elm 
tree beside the driveway. There are times when 
nature shuts us out from her secrecies however 
much we long to know. 

Even so, what majesties are trees ! In cities we 
have only houses and people, poor substitutes for 
trees and birds ! Trees have souls, I am sure, and 
whoso harms them willfully will come into a judg- 
ment for his deeds. I am impressed by Alice 
Brown's story of the German soldiers in hell, who 
are tortured by the ghosts of trees they slew in 
France and Belgium. How the trees must have 



144 Jfrom a i^outjjern $otcf) 

suffered in the war! Think of the agony of a 
tree helpless to protect the nestlings trusted to its 
care, powerless to shield the dryad spirit sheltering 
in its heart! Dante should be here to devise 
a deeper depth of hell for those who murder 
trees ! 

The porches here are covered in with vines of 
various sorts, that make a bowered privacy in places, 
yet leave a clear view of the hill and the lake and the 
road. There are rose vines along the columns, 
Marechal Niels with their golden loveliness, and 
climbing American beauties, that a little earher 
were a mass of delight, and white climbers, and 
pink ones. On a back porch an old-fashioned yel- 
low rose of humble origin is allowed to clamber, 
with its unassuming flowers and its faint odor. 

Yellow roses, quaint and shy, 
All a-riot on the high 
Trellised wall, I mind how I 
Loved you in my childhood days. 
Loved you for your errant grace, 
For each fragile-petaled face, 

For your faint, elusive scent's 

Delicate impermanence. 

There be flowers far more fair; 
Other roses, rich and rare. 
Others choose, — what do I care? 



Jiotanijing from a Counttp J^orcft 145 

Yellow roses on the wall, 

Still you hold my heart in thrall. 

Sight and scent of you up-call 

Memory's dim, delicious pain. 

Lo, I am a child again ! 

Beside the driveway is a tangle of Cherokee 
roses, where the mocking birds nest, while over the 
wire of the tennis courts white and purple clematis 
bloom. 

On one side of the porch a star jasmine climbs 
up the trellis, with its clusters of tiny stars, a 
white perfumed constellation, with the sweetest 
odor in the world. The star jasmine is to me one 
of the best-loved flowers, yet it brings back poign- 
ant memories. I never smell its fragrance that 
I do not think of a night long ago one May, when 
my father lay dying, when from the open window 
came the odor of the star jasmine on the wall out- 
side. Why is it that odors have more power to 
recall memories than have sight or touch or sound? 

On the trellis on the opposite wall, on the other 
side of the porch, yellow jasmine is growing, a wild 
vine that my mother loved best of all flowers, one 
that grew in the woods of her girlhood. It has 
little golden bells that shake in the breeze and 
emit soundless perfume sweet as dreams. When 



10 



146 Jfrom a ^outfjern J^orcfj 

it grows wild in its native state, it fills the woods 
with sweetness. 

Along the front of the porch scarlet sage is stand- 
ing, in bright independence, with dusty miller as a 
foil. All day long the humming birds are poising 
to sip the sweetness from these honeyed tiny pitch- 
ers, their whirring wings making monotonous 
harmony and their little quivering cries stabbing 
the silence. 

Along the stone wall at the crest of the hill 
nasturtiums are blooming, with their bright im- 
pressionism against a background of soft green 
shrubs called summer cedars. The hill is white 
with snowballs, and pink and lavender with hy- 
drangeas, while against the western wall of the 
house forest lilies are blooming, graceful, swaying 
in the wind in tawny tints. 

In the back is an old-fashioned garden with 
grandmotherly flowers, phlox, zinnias, prince's 
feather, sweet William, clove pinks, and the like. 
Along the fence grow sweet peas and tall, gay- 
faced hollyhocks, with ruffled dresses, and sun- 
flowers, round and bright. Here, too, are the 
herbs, sweet basil, lavender, mint, and the rest. 
There is lemon verbena whose dried leaves hold 
summer fragrance all through the winter, and 



Jiotani^ms from a Counttp $orcf) 147 

mint that goes in iced tea and lemonade. "Tithes 
of mint and anise and cummin," ah, that were 
tribute worth while! 

Yonder is a far hedge of crepe myrtle, whose 
rose-colored blossoms are like young girls' party 
dresses, soft, and bright like a young girl's dreams. 
Across their vivid beauty a bluebird flashes occa- 
sionally, like a swift stroke of an artist's brush. 
White and purple altheas are blooming on the other 
side of the garden, nodding to each other and to 
me, as the wind blows. 

Over the fence of the vegetable garden in the 
rear, wild blackberry vines trail and climb. Walt 
Whitman says a wild blackberry vine is beautiful 
enough to adorn the court of heaven, which may be 
true, but in my opinion, that vine will never get 
there. It is like some beautiful human beings that 
I know, temperamentally unsuited to celestiality. 
Still, I admire the blackberry vine more than I do 
human dingers and climbers. I love to go black- 
berrying in the woodsy places about here, though 
I have difficulty in avoiding entangling alliances 
with the runners. The other day I picked a gallon 
of berries in the woods in one morning, of which I 
made jam. Some of my berries were wild rasp- 
berries, but they didn't injure the jam, I'm sure. 



148 ifrom a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

Did you ever make blackberry jam of berries 
you have picked right in the woods yourself? It's 
a delectable experience, and then, in addition, you 
have the jam. There is a proprietary flavor to 
berries you've gathered yourself that no alien crop 
or "boughten berries" can afford, though I was 
unable to explain matters to Aunt Mandy, who 
generously wished to add to my gallon a quantity 
of berries she had got from a couple of small boys 
at the kitchen door. I wished to keep my jam 
from the least taint of commerciality, so I cooked 
it promptly myself. 

Jam gives out such a delicious odor when it is 
boiling, and it is such fun to taste it occasionally, 
cooling some in a saucer, to see if it is done! I 
made constant experiments, partly because I wished 
to keep the jam from burning and partly because — 
I liked the taste. You must put a silver fork or 
spoon in the jar before you pour in the hot jam, 
to keep the glass from cracking, and seal the jar 
quickly while it is boiling hot. 

Thomas Jefferson Randolph goes with me when 
I berry, looking much like a ripe blackberry him- 
self. He knows where all the thickest growths of 
berry vines are, and gives me much untechnical 
information concerning birds and plants. My 



JJotani^ms from a Countrp ^otcfi 149 

attention cannot be devoted exclusively to black- 
berries, when there are snakes to be dodged, bird 
nests to be peered into, wild flowers to be gathered, 
and pickaninnies to be fraternized with. Critical 
members of the household sometimes make com- 
ments on the empty spaces in my buckets when I 
return from berrying, but I explain that I have 
brought back much else that may not be made into 
pies for them to eat, or even into jam — but is 
mysteriously preserved for my own private delecta- 
tion in the winter. 

I asked Lucia and the Professor to go with me 
one morning, but they didn't pick as many berries 
as even T. J. R. and I did. Lucia was jumpy over 
the thought of snakes, and the Professor picked 
more green berries than he did ripe ones, for how 
can one pick the right kind when he is looking at 
a girl instead of at the vine? People usually do 
look at Lucia when she is around, but, to my mind, 
plump blackberries ''smilin' on de vine" are more 
attractive than two eyes, however large and dusky, 
a mouth that has a wistful little curve to it, and 
dark hair that waves softly away from a rather 
eager, serious young face. But then, the Profes- 
sor is near-sighted, which perhaps is why he looks 
so long at Lucia, wishing to be sure of what her 



150 Jftom a ^outfjetn $ort& 

features are, so that he will recognize them the next 
time. 

There are many creeping things of beauty in the 
Virginia woods and country lanes, and in the fields. 
No bareness is visible, no ugliness but is covered 
with viny grace. Over many a bank the wild 
honeysuckle spreads, and many a homely fence 
is mantled with its loveliness of green and its lit- 
tle perfumed bugles. There is the white, shading 
into yellow, and there is also the coral honey- 
suckle, with a bright bloom. When the honey- 
suckle is in its first glory of blossoms, the woods and 
lanes are filled with fragrance. 

The wild morning-glory climbs up every corn- 
stalk in the field, lifting innumerable blossoms 
like bright sunbonneted heads of children, pink 
and blue and lavender. Over the stumps of trees 
fallen to the axe, or up into the boughs of those 
dead as they stand, the trumpet-vine clings and 
clambers, turning decay into indomitable beauty. 
Every fence post, every telegraph or telephone 
pole, is thus glorified with the brilliant trumpets 
that send a challenge of loveliness in the face of 
the world, comforting with tribute of love the 
thing that in some yesterday was a green, living 
tree. 



Wotani^inq from a Country ^orcfj 151 

There are wild roses everywhere in the early 
summer, pink petaled allurements with a sweeter 
charm than any hothouse product can possess. 
There's the wild potato vine, with its great white 
blossoms like moonflowers, on vines like trailing 
sweet-potato plants. Wild grape vines festoon the 
fences or climb into the indulgent tree tops, while 
the Virginia creeper aspires to the tops of the tall 
pines. There's a little vine here that I have never 
seen elsewhere than in Virginia — the cigar-plant, 
so called because of its blossoms, long and round 
and shaped like toy cigars, with flaming tips. 
The foliage is like that of the cypress vine, very 
delicate and graceful. 

As I sit here on the porch and use my field glasses, 
I can distinguish many varieties of wild flowers by 
the roadside and fringing the lake. In the wet, 
marshy ground by the water, the joe-pye weed 
stands, with its dark lavender sprays of bloom, or 
in handsome stalks sometimes six or eight feet 
high. The ironweed beside it has a color some- 
thing like it, but more rusty and subdued in tone. 
There is the sumach with its wine-dark spikes and 
rich foliage by the road. The open spaces that 
early in June were white with large-eyed daisies, 
and pink with wild roses, now show the goldenrod 



152 jfxom a B>ontf}tvn J^orcfj 

shining in the sun. The goldenrod loves the sun- 
light and reflects it. 

The big white flowers of the wild cotton plant 
are in bloom beside the road, stately and tall. 
A blue field that I see in the distance is a mass of 
chicory, with its blossoms like cornflowers, bravely 
blue. I have seen many a vacant field and some 
city lots here filled with it. People who have lived 
here for years tell me that the chicory is a new- 
comer here, that it was not seen even fifteen years 
ago. They say that it is crowding out the daisies, 
but I don't notice any lack of daisies in their 
time. 

As Mose came back from taking the cow to pas- 
ture this morning he brought me a handful of wild 
flowers, picked with short stems. Why do men al- 
ways pick flowers with such stubby stems? Mose 
stood beside me as I ran over the names, to give 
me information I might need. 

There was a spray of jewelweed, with its pen- 
dent lovely flowers like lavallidres. There was 
cassia, with its foliage like that of a sensitive plant, 
and its leguminous flowers, that grow in such 
abundance by the wayside. 

"This cassia is lovely, Mose," I remarked. 

" Naw*m, dat ain't casher," Mose smiled. " Dat's 



5iotani>mg from a Country J^orcfj 153 

Bob White Pea. Some folks calls hit Partridge 
Pea, but I ain't never heerd it called casher. '* 

"That's what a botanist told me it was, but I 
think Bob White Pea is much prettier," I an- 
swered. "And what is this leaf?" 

" Dat's skunk cabbage, " he informed me. 

"Here is Queen Anne's lace," I cried, holding 
up a spray of cobweb texture. "I do think it's 
the prettiest wild flower that grows, except the 
buffalo clover, in Texas. You should see a field 
of buffalo clover, or 'blue bonnet' in a Texas spring, 
with its heavenly blue color just touched with 
white and scarlet! But this is lovely, too." 

" Yas'm, hit is pretty," he said, turning his old 
hat around on one forefinger. "But us colored 
folks calls hit wild carrot." 

"And here's the butterfly- weed, " I exclaimed in 
delight, lifting a cluster of rich burnt-orange 
flowers. 

Mose chuckled. "You sho' is got fancy names 
fo' deshere weeds! Dat's jes' old-fashioned chig- 
ger-plant. Dey calls hit dat because de chiggers 
stays on hit so much." 

"Other folks call it butterfly- weed because the 
butterflies cluster round it to get its sweetness," 
I argued. But Mose shook his head. 



154 Jfrom a ^outfjetn J^orcfj 

' ' Here's the trumpet vine, '■' I continued, gloating 
over the rich red bugles of bloom. "I'm so glad 
you brought me this. I love it. '* 

"Yks'm, " Mose called back as he departed 
towards the garden. ''Only dat ain't de right 
name fo' hit. Us colored folks calls hit cow-itch. " 

Uninterrupted by contradiction, I examined the 
other treasures Mose had brought me. There was 
a stalk of pepper grass, tall, sprangly with slender 
branches and tiny pungent pods. I munched it 
delightedly, remembering how I used to love it in 
my childhood. And now I love it, not for its 
own sake, but because that child was fond of it. 
My canary used to love it, too. There was a 
spray of wild fern in the bunch, and I could close 
my eyes and see the dim woods, moist and un- 
trampled, with wild ferns growing everywhere. 

After awhile the Professor came up the hill, 
bringing me an armful of Queen Anne's lace for the 
big bowl on the porch, and a wee bird-nest that he 
had found in the grass beneath a tree by the path. 
I held the cluster of Queen Anne's lace up to the 
light and looked at its exquisiteness. It is like a 
snowfiake seen through a microscope, with its 
unimaginable delicacy of form, so fragile it seems 
that a breath would destroy it, yet lasting through 



Jiotani^ms from a Counttp J^orcf) 155 

wind and rain and sun by the road for days. It 
is like fairy-filagree, like lace the Little People 
make out of moonbeams for their queen to wear. 
Here on the same stem grows a cup-shaped green 
thing called a bird-nest. When I see a spray of 
Queen Anne's lace, I think of all the lanes round 
about where I go on my morning horseback rides, 
and see the abundance of its beauty. It loves the 
open places where the sun shines freely. Usually 
it is white, but sometimes I find blossoms that are 
delicate green, and sometimes a pinkish lavender, 
but it is always exquisite in its fragility. 

As I ride along the country roads and study the 
wild flowers, I am impressed by the prevalence of 
two colors, yellow and purple. There is much 
yellow, of all shades imaginable. The golden- 
rod, which begins to bloom in July, is everywhere, 
showing in many varieties that give me unceasing 
pleasure. There are sunflowers growing in fence 
corners and along the roads, some giant in size, 
others mere babies, with all sizes in between. 
Cassia is abundant. There is blackeyed Susan, 
with all her country cousins of different features 
and tints of complexion, but showing a family re- 
semblance. There's the wild snapdragon with its 
yellow flowers. The butterfly- weed is rich orange 



156 Jfrom a ^outfjern Ij^oxtf) 

and yellow, with butterflies of its own color flitting 
above it. 

There are many flowers in purple and lavender 
shades, as well, some which I know, and some 
of which I am ignorant. There's joe-pye weed, 
splendid in its stateliness beside the swampy 
places, and milkweed in its purple-red, with its 
juicy leaves that exude a milky substance when 
they're broken. The butterfly pea with its lav- 
ender bloom, clinging close to the ground, and 
the desmodium with its diaphanous beauty veiling 
the spaces in the woods are more retiring. The 
purple thistle grows jauntily in the fields, an,d there 
are many others that I cannot identify. 

I have been trying to think what the world 
would be like were there no flowers in it. Dismal 
as the city streets are, they are yet brightened by 
an occasional display in a florist's window, or by 
the blossoms in some flower- venders' baskets, 
which nourish the anaemic soul with beauty. But 
suppose there were no flowers anywhere, how 
dreadful it would be! I dare say nature's eco- 
nomic scheme might have been arranged to do 
without flowers, but life deprived of them would 
be of appalHng barrenness. Cotton, for instance, 
might have been grown from roots, instead 



Motmi}inq from a Country $otct 157 

of seeds, but the lovely hibiscus-like blooms add a 
grace to the utilitarian field that language cannot 
measure . Those petals of pinkness so softly touched 
with pearl, those tip-tilted blossoms a-glisten with 
dew, last only a day, but life is inestimably richer 
for them. Each rosy flower asway in the sun, each 
blossoming vine that touches with grace man's 
clumsy workmanship, adds something finer than 
monetary value to the world. A spray of mignon- 
ette can bring back holiest associations, and there's 
a gospel in each wayside flowering weed. 

Walking in the city is lonesome because there 
are no flowers growing by the way. You see no 
live thing except dogs that look either snobbish or 
humiliated because of their muzzles, and people 
who are not folksy as in the country. In the 
country, every road is friendly with foliage and 
flowers, and each little bypath is like a confidential 
chat. A rabbit runs across the road in front of 
you, a turtle waddles along, the birds salute you 
from every tree, and the squirrels chatter at you, 
while the flowers nod silently to you on every hand. 
People that pass you speak to you, even if they 
never saw you before. But if you try speaking to 
strangers in the city, you're liable to be arrested. 
It's the flowers that make all the difference ! 



VI 



A SOUTHERN EXPOSURE 



A PORCH has a hospitable soul. It welcomes 
guests of all degrees in a more cordial manner than 
the inside of a house ever knows. A porch comes 
halfway to meet a guest, with outstretched hands, 
and bids him a lingering good-by when he must go. 
A shy young man once told me that he never made 
calls except in summer when his friends were sit- 
ting out on their verandas, and he could drop in 
on them as if unpremeditatedly, because he was ill 
at ease in other people's houses. Parlors gave him 
a social chill. 

It is true that to ring a strepitant doorbell or 
clang a brazen knocker, then stand in waiting till a 
door is grudgingly opened, takes the first pleasure 
out of a call. To pass one's card to a hostile 
servitor, or confide one's name to a supercilious 
telephone operator, is to suffer an indignity dis- 
proportionate to the joy of the visit. Door-men 
in the city seem to me as a class paranoiacs with 

158 



^ ^outtiern exposure 159 

delusions of grandeur, yet for all that, we are 
under their power. 

But to stroll past the house of a friend, to see 
him sitting at leisure on his porch, obviously un- 
employed, is a different matter. One knows then 
that a chance call will not inconvenience him. 
On the contrary, if he is not visibly porching, he 
may be in the bathtub, or spanking his small boy, 
or engaged in some other activity which he'd 
dislike to have interrupted. And it robs a visit of 
all spontaneity and joy to arrange it beforehand 
and feel oneself bound to it, when the host may be 
violently wishing himself elsewhere. Calling has 
fallen into decay in cities, because there are no 
verandas. Friendship is largely dependent upon 
porches. 

It is much easier to entertain a person on a porch 
than elsewhere. If his thoughts stutter, the im- 
pediment in his conversation is mitigated by the 
things he sees about him. He may notice the trans- 
lucent bodies of the humming birds as they poise 
above the scarlet sage, or see the mauve-blue shad- 
ows on the hill slope, or hear the polyphonic murmur 
of the wind among the pine tops, or be startled by 
the importunate yelping of young puppies smitten 
mth some transitory pang. Who could be dumb 



i6o Jfrom a ^outjern ^orcfj 

when a baby rabbit lopes up and halts to wash 
its face with its paws, in plain view by the hy- 
drangeas ? Who could be bored or boresome when 
blue-tailed lizards whisk under his feet and flash 
across the porch to lick up flies with lightning 
tongues ? It is only inside houses that time seems 
long and guests are dull. 

The outside air gives a fresh fillip to the brain, 
and lubricates the tongue without the disagreeable 
complications of alcoholic intoxication. And of 
course, as anybody knows, proposals should be 
made on porches in the moonlight, — when there's 
just enough moon to turn the heart but not to 
touch the brain, — and with some colored person in 
the distance twanging a guitar as he sings some 
old love song. There should preferably be a 
feathery vine of some sort on the bright side of the 
porch, to guarantee the proper delicate nuances and 
innuendoes of moonlight. Marriages made in 
heaven are all arranged for on porches in the 
moonlight. Who wishes to propose or be pro- 
posed to under an arc light or beside an electroHer 
and in front of a gas log? Parlors are the real 
reason for the decline in matrimony and the 
increase in divorce. How easy to quarrel in a 
room with a shrewish victrola ! How simple to be 



H ^outfjetn €xpo£fure i6i 

amiable in the cool moonlit silences! Decidedly, 
there should be more porches, provided by the 
government, if necessary. 

I fancy porch chairs remember the persons who 
sit in them, and when they are alone at night rock 
with pride or protest at recalling what has been 
said. I've heard them doing so — when they 
thought us all asleep! Some night I shall slip 
down and eavesdrop. No doubt they talk de- 
lightfully until dawn, after the fashion of John 
Charteris in Beyond Life, uttering wise and gay 
reflections upon life. Maybe those chairs continue 
conversations from where they were broken off, 
endlessly rocking in the listening night. 

I love to listen to conversation un trammeled by 
responsibility for joining in. That is more pos- 
sible on a porch than in a house in the glaring 
light. If there are several persons on the porch, 
all tonguishly inclined, I can indulge myself in 
comfortable silence. I can enjoy the conversation, 
note its steady stream, and stand aside, or dabble 
my feet in it as I like, without plunging into the 
full current. Talk is everlastingly interesting to 
me, — if it makes itself, and is not the mechanical 
duty conversation that one produces under com- 
pulsion. I like even stupid talk on a porch. I 



( " 



i62 jFrom a ^outfjetn l^oxtf) 

wonder who was the extraordinary person that 
invented talk. How clever of him or her — I wager 
it was a her! — who first discovered that the little 
pointed organ in the mouth could be used to con- 
vey ideas to an outsider! Philologists say that 
man was differentiated from the anthropoid apes 
only by the development of language, and con- 
versely, I dare say, if we were all stricken dumb, we 
should slide back into baboonism. Now, however, 
we know how to put our talk on paper and send 
it far distances. And isn't the pen merely an elong- 
ated, more pointed, metal tongue? So perhaps 
we are safe, after all. 

As I was saying when I interrupted myself, I 
like to tilt one ear toward conversation in which I 
am not required to join. For example, the other 
day, several women were on the porch discuss- 
ing husbands. They were guardedly speaking in 
general, but when a woman discusses husbands in 
the collective, you may know she's speaking about 
her own, past, present, future, or hoped-for. 
Hypothetical husbands are like lightning-rods, 
conveying the excess electricity in the atmosphere 
to safe common ground. 

''How like a husband!" Mrs. Little had said 
in comment on some incident. 



^ ^outf)etn €xpo£rtire 163 

''Husbands are such foreigners!" said Mrs. 
Allison, the brown-eyed, brown-haired girl who 
had lately come up as a bride from Louisiana. 
"When you're married, you think you know the 
farthest corners of their minds, and then you keep 
on discovering that you don't know them at all, 
that you are continually apart in sympathy. The 
marriage certificate isn't always a naturalization 
paper." 

"And the discouraging thing is that you never 
will know them," said Mrs. Phillips, who had 
recently celebrated her silver wedding. 

"That's the chief comfort to my mind, " broke in 
Mrs. Adams, briskly. "What you don't know 
won't bother you. " 

"They're more than foreigners, — they're enemy 
aliens," put in Mrs. Simpson, who had just got 
a divorce on the ground of incompatability. 
"They're always trying to overturn our emotions, 
and set fire to our peace of mind. We think at 
first we can't live without them, and then we find 
it's impossible to live with them. " 

"The worst part of it is that they're spies!" 
said Mrs. Winthrop, one of the most pampered 
wives in Virginia. "They're continually finding 
out our faults — oh, we have them, of course, else 



i64 Jfrom a ^outf)ern J^orcfj 

why should we be attractive enough for our hus- 
bands to marry us ? — and blaming them on women 
in general. 'How like a woman!' they say. 
They're so personally impersonal. Women aren't 
like that." 

"'How like a husband!'" I murmured in be- 
lated echo, but I was unheeded, — at least my sar- 
casm fell unnoted. 

**Yes, isn't it?" agreed Mrs. Simpson. 

"Men cease to be folks when they be- 
come husbands," complained the brown-eyed 
bride. 

"Oh, I think you're all wrong," put in 
Mrs. Denton. "Husbands are ourselves. We 
stand shoulder to shoulder against the world. 
We're like Siamese twins, and it's as foolish 
to make cutting remarks about your husband 
as to hack at your arm or slice off your 
ear." 

"I always did pity those Siamese creatures — 
deformities, nothing else!" snapped Mrs. Simpson. 

Just here, I heard Tish, busy at her ironing on 
the back porch, singing one of her "ballets" that 
seemed to me to have a bearing on the subject, so 
I signalled the women to listen to Tish's contribu- 
tion of opinion. 



<a ^outfjern exposure 165 



"When boys fust go acourtin', 

Dey dress up so fine. 
To fool all de pore gals 

Is all dat dey design. 
Go tittlin' an' tattlin' 

An* tellin' dem lies 
To keep up de pore gals 

Till dey's ready to die. 

When gals fust get married, 

Deir pleasures is done, 
But deir grief an' deir sorrows 

Is scarcely begun. 
Deir chillun to bawl, 

Deir husban's to scold, 
An' den deir pretty faces 

Gits withered an' old. 

Oh, when I was single 

I libed at my ease, 
But now I am married, 

I got a husban' to please! 
I'm washin' my chillun 

An' puttin' dem to bed, 
Wid my husban' a-scoldin' me 

An' wishin' I was dead! " 

''That's more like the situation, *' said Mrs. 
Winthrop. "And anyhow, Mrs. Denton, you 
speak so blithely because you've been married a 
very little time. It's quite evident your spouse 



i66 Jftom a ^outfjetn ^orcfi 

hasn't yet scolded you for overdrawing your bank 
account." 

' ' The first time mine did that, I told him if he'd 
take care to keep plenty of money on deposit for 
me, I'd never overdraw it," said Mrs. Adam. 

* ' There, I see my husband coming for me in the 
car," interrupted the bride. "I must be ready 
when he comes, because he hates being kept 
waiting. He says that's his chief criticism of 
women, that they have no sense of the value of 
time." 

Even one husband, I find, is sufficient to break 
up any discussion of marriage. 

''There are no model husbands any more, as 
there aren't any more good servants," sighed Mrs. 
Phillips. 

"Yes, I know one," broke in Mrs. Denton. 
* * Professor Hopkins is the only specimen of model 
husband now existing in captivity. He married 
a domestic science teacher, but he has to get up 
and cook breakfast for her and her mother, who 
lives with them. I'm told he serves a tray to each 
of them in bed before he dashes off to his eight 
o'clock lecture." 

"Well, I'dbeamanora mouse, one!" exclaimed 
Mrs. Little. 



^ ^outjern (Bxpo&nvt 167 

But the husband was at the steps by now, so 
the conversation was abandoned. 

On another day, I heard an elderly woman giv- 
ing advice to a young widow swathed in crepe. 

''Now, Sara Jane, I want to tell you that 
you're doing a silly thing to give away your best 
clothes just because your husband has died. 
Don't you do it ! You keep those clothes a while, 
and you'll be surprised to see how soon they'll 
look attractive to you again. I know what I'm 
talking about, for haven't I been married five 
times and been a widow four?" 

"But I don't feel ri-ight in anything but black !' ' 
sniffled the widow into the folds of an inkish- 
bordered kerchief. 

"Those feelings will soon pass. The first time 
my husband died I put on the longest and cr^piest 
veil I could find, and I bent myself almost double 
to the ground in weeping. I couldn't find clothes 
black enough or heavy enough to suit me — me, 
who'd been the gayest girl in two counties! My 
mother was wise, because she said to me, 'The cow 
that bawls loudest for her calf is soonest com- 
forted.' Well, I'm here to tell you it's so. '* 

"/'// never be comforted!'* 

"Yes, you will, too! Well, my family carried 



i68 Jfrom a ^outjern ^orcJj 

me to White Sulphur Springs for the summer, to 
improve my health and distract my mind. Pretty 
soon I quit crying long enough to see other girls 
not any younger than I was and not half as pretty 
and come-hithery as I was before my crepe days, 
dressed in their light dresses and having such a 
good time with the young men. There I was, 
muffled to my eyes in crepe! " 

"Surely you didn't want to flirt at such a time! " 
came reproachful accents from the veil. 

**Sure I did! The catechism says what man's 
first duty is, but forgets to mention woman's, 
which is to flirt. How else is man to be kept in 
proper sub j ection ? ' ' 

"Well, I looked around for something to lighten 
my grief, and I didn't have a thing. I'd given 
away all my white dresses and my girly clothes, 
and there I was, with nothing but cr^pe to flaunt 
in the face of all those good-looking young men. 
But I will say for myself that I could always do 
more with crdpe than some folks could with pink 
ball-dresses. Well, I made up my mind right then 
and there that the next time my husband died 
I'd keep my head and my clothes. And I did." 

"But cr^pe is a state of mind — cr6pe is sym- 
bolic faithfulness to your true love." 



I 



^ ^outftern €xpos(ure 169 

"Symbolic fiddlesticks! If you wear cr^pe too 
long it goes to your brain. You see some women 
here in the South that seem ashamed to take off 
their mourning even to go to bed, when they'd 
faint with horror if they thought their worthless 
husbands stood any chance to come alive again. 
I shouldn't be surprised if some of them don't 
wear black nighties, or cr^pe-bordered pajamas. 
Crepe is hideous looking and any woman who 
wears it a day longer than she naturally has to is 
taking her second chances in her own hand, I tell 
you. You'd better listen to inspired words from 
one who has been there and knows." 

"Will — you go shopping with me to-morrow?" 
asked the widow. 

The other afternoon a group of men and women 
were here. The Doctor and Lucia had just come 
in from seeing a country patient. She had a little 
new local color in the shape of a few golden freckles 
on her nose, though her eyes were less lustrous 
than usual. Lucia's eyes seem to fade or brighten 
with her feelings and serve me as a sort of barom- 
eter of her emotions. The Doctor was as blithe 
as usual, going through a sort of mental attitudin- 
izing for the benefit of observers, chiefly Lucia. 
His emotional gymnastic don't move me any more, 



170 jFrom a ^outftern ^orcJj 

because I feel they're only verbal trapeze per- 
formances. 

Carl Hackett was here, too. He's just written 
a book, an orgy of words. Carl Hackett thinks 
himself a wild person, but in action he is very 
conventional. He dissipates only with his intel- 
lect. He's one of those mind-proud persons, a 
bookster, a sort of verbal publisher's dummy, a 
walking blurb, full of sound and fury, but signify- 
ing nothing. He doesn't really injure the mentale 
of any reader, though he'd be deeply grieved if he 
knew how harmless he is. 

This afternoon he was affecting brave indiffer- 
ence under a heavy barrage from the eyes of several 
girls still in their teens. Carl himself is approach- 
ing thirty. I even saw a flicker of interest in the 
face of Miss Green, a spinster of the sore and yellow 
type, who is retreating from forty, but reluctantly 
and with backward-gazing eyes. 

"I've been telling Miss Lucia she should write 
books," said Carl. 

"Oh, I couldn't do that," protested Lucia. "I 
think too much of my thoughts for that. Thoughts 
are such delicate things, coming up from nowhere, 
and vanishing like wraiths while you gaze at them. 
They flit past you like joyous birds, like painted 



^ ^outfjern €xpoiuxt 171 

butterflies. Shall I kill them with pins to put 
them between the covers of a book? No — I'd 
rather let them go forever wild and free ! " 

Carl said, ''I sometimes think I must stop writ- 
ing because books are so revealing. You can't 
write a page without putting yourself iiito it. 
People will see your inner soul." 

"That would be embarrassing for some people," 
murmured the Doctor under his breath. "But 
you should have the cowardice of your convictions. " 

"I don't think all books reprCvSent the author," 
said the Professor. "Sometimes a book only 
shows what the author thinks he is. Books are 
like children. A child should be his parent's better 
self, his embodied graces of soul and body, lacking 
the qualities that mar him — his visible angel, 
as it were, sent forth to the world to represent 
him. Sometimes it seems as if this were really 
true, and again I have known instances where the 
opposite appeared to be the case." 

"Yes!" I murmured. 

"Likewise, it seems to me a book should be 
a writer's real self, his envolumed heart, his per- 
manently bound impulses of love and beauty and 
goodness. Yet as there are spoiled and wayward 
children, so there are books that misrepresent the 



172 jFrom a ^ontftern J^orcf) 

writers, that disgust us when they come into our 
homes, that upset our mental furniture, that 
smirch our thoughts and rouse all our antagonism. 
Books that cannot conduct themselves properly 
should be shut up in dark libraries till they learn 
how to behave. Maybe they are atavistic out- 
breaks, and interpret past generations of the 
writers." 

"Some people don't realize life at all, and hence 
cannot interpret it," I suggested. "They see life 
only as a dream, and a dream mirrored on print 
paper is rather obscured." 

Carl said something that I didn't hear plainly, 
because my mind had started on a little side-trip 
of its own. So I left the thistle-down laughter of 
the young girls to the ears of Carl, for whom it 
was intended. My mind likes to go galumphing 
over creation, and I find that the time I can best 
spare for such excursions is when callers are on the 
porch. My brain is the sort that positively will 
not stand hitched long at a time, and the hobbles of 
duty conversation are so irksome that they are 
quickly kicked off, and my fancy goes galloping 
over many a flower-strewn plain. I have a pro- 
found pity for such people as keep their minds in 
stalls all the time, that never let them know the 



^ ^outfietn exposure 173 

delight of wide, unreined racing. Some people 
there are, too, I dare say, who haven't minds of 
their own to ride on, and so they have to hire 
somebody else's jitney brains to take an airing in. 
Jitneys are useful, but they have grave limitations. 
They cannot soar to meet the stars, they cannot 
plunge into the ocean-depths, but must travel in 
fixed paths, at so much a trip. 

When children are here with other guests, I 
usually wander off to the far end of the porch with 
them, to show them my pet hornets, or to watch 
the tree lizards, or to play with the puppies. I 
love to hear children talk. A little girl was here 
the other day, telling me of her Sunday-school. 
She and her small brother described the services of 
the primary class, where they have certain solemn 
observances, such as placing all the feet to match a 
certain line on the carpet, and singing in concert, 
"Oh, little feet be careful!" They told me of the 
birthday offering, the deposit in the collection box 
of pennies to the number of years of the birth- 
dayed member. One little girl, whether moved by 
prophetic reticence concerning census returns, or 
by a desire to withhold part of the contribution for 
private use, put in only six cents last Sunday. 



174 Jfrom a ^outfjern l^oxth 

''And she knows she's seven!" was the small 
boy's disgusted comment. 

''Tell me something more about this primary 
class. It interests me," I suggested. 

"Well, th'other Sunday the teacher told us all 
about Samuel 'n' Eli. Eli was the preacher that 
stayed at the church an' ran things. His boys 
was all growed up an' so he adopted a little boy 
named Samuel to live with him an' wait on him. 
Eli was awful old an' couldn't get about much, 
so Samuel waited on him real nice. He did every- 
thing for Eli, Samuel did. He ran errands for 
him, 'n' he washed the dishes, 'n' ran the victrola 
for Eli when he wanted music, 'n' cranked the 
automobile, 'n' did everything Eli ast him to! " 

A tiny girl who had listened to the conversation 
reverted to the subject of birthdays, that held more 
interest for her than temple services. 

"I had a birthday last week," she piped in. 
* * What do you think ? I went to bed f ' ee years old 
an' I waked up fo' ! " 

She looked so bewitching as she said this that I 
could not resist snatching her to me, whereat she 
snuggled close to me on the couch and asked, 
" Where's your Httle girl? *' 

"I haven't any," I confessed regretfully. 



^ ^outjjern €xposfure 175 

"Haven't got any little girl at all?" she ques- 
tioned in surprise. 

"No. I'm sorry." 

" Where's your little boy ? " 

"I haven't got any little boy, either," I was 
forced to admit. 

She surveyed me pityingly for a moment, then 
asked, "Well, what have you got?" 

I considered, the while I mentally enumerated 
my blessings. 

" Nothing that takes the place of little girls and 
boys," I said, kissing her yellow curls. 

She gave me a quick, whimsical little hug, and 
was off to chase a puppy round the corner. 

The seven-year-old boy remained behind to tell 
me of a baseball game he had attended, at which a 
famous pitcher had pitched. 

"I certainly do admire that man," he said. 
"When I see him it makes me feel all wiggly inside 
of me." 

"I understand," I said, nodding. 

"Did you ever know anybody that made your 
heart wiggle?" he asked. 

"Yes, heaps of times." 

"It's like being scared an' glad all at the same 
time," he philosophized. "Funny how things 



176 Jftom a ^outjern $orcf) 

that don't touch you can make you feel dif-frent, 
isn't it? Now, when you're mad, you get kinder 
hot all over, even if it's a cold day." 

He broke off with a giggle. "I saw a girl the 
other day that sure was good 'n' mad!" 

"Tell me about it." 

"Well, she's Nancy Riley, that lives next door. 
She's eight years old, an' she's a hot tamale, she is! 
Th' other day her mother spanked her for some- 
thing she'd done, an' I was in our back yard an' 
heard her yellin', reg'lar war-whoops. Nancy, 
she sure is some yeller when she's mad." 

"What did she do when she stopped yelling?" 

"She come out behind the garage where I was, 
an' she stomped her foot, an' she gritted her teeth, 
an' she hollered at her mother — but not loud 
'nough for her to hear. She said, "I hate you ! I 
stomp on you! I spit on you! I wish you was 
dead, an' I wish you was buried, an' I wish I was 
stompin' on your grave!" 

"Whew!" I commented. 

I recalled what Carl Hackett had said the other 
day, that children are the only persons that should 
write books, for they feel most keenly. When we 
are children we have poignant emotions, but lack 
language to express them. And when we're older, 



^ ^outfiern dtxpomtt 177 

we have plenty of words but are bankrupt of emo- 
tions. It's like the man who said when he was a 
small boy he longed for a dollar to buy all the gum- 
drops he could eat. When he was a man, he had 
the dollars, but didn't care for gum-drops. 

''That was sad, of course," I had commented 
at the time. "Unless he had learned to care for 
substitutes." 

** I hate substitutes," Sara Crenshaw had broken 
in. '*If I can't have what I want I'd rather go 
without than take a substitute. " 

"That's just one of your mental bed-sores," 
Helen Anderson had put in. " It came from your 
marketing while the war was on Anyhow, life is 
just a series of substitutes, some of them better for 
us than the things we want." 

A boy of five came to see me recently, and talked 
with me while his mother enjoyed other conver- 
sation. 

"Don't you jes* nachelly hate being bathed?" 
he questioned me. 

"No," I answered, "though at times I regret 
the time it takes. You haven't really anything 
to show for it, you know." 

"I show the diff'rence," he asserted. "The 

12 



178 jFrom a ^outfjern ^orcft 

worst is ears," he went on. "People gouge so, 
you see. But mother thought up a game that 
makes it go easier. We pretend that each ear is a 
robber cave that we've got to explore. An' clean- 
ing finger-nails was horrid till she got to letting me 
name each one for some person I'm int'rested in, 
an' so I stand it a lot better." 

"Who are your finger-nails?" I queried. 

"President Wilson and Admiral Foch are the 
thumbs, an' of course they've got to be kep' clean,'* 
he informed me. 

"Certainly I can see that. And who are the 
others?" 

"There's Papa Joffre, an' Billy Sunday, an' 
Uncle Remus — he isn't real, you know, but he 
seems more alive than some folks I know. They're 
on the right hand, an' the littlest finger is my 
Sunday-school teacher. I keep her awful clean, 
because she's so sweet an' pretty." 

"And the left?" 

"The left— there's Ty Cobb, an' General Persh- 
ing, an' Charlie Chaplin." 

"And ?" 

"The littlest finger there is the little girl that 
lives across the street." He flushed a bit, but held 
his head up bravely, then looked down with 



^ ^outfjern (Bxpomvt 179 

tenderness at the small finger — which at that 
moment was not immaculate. 

"That's delightful," I commented heartily. *'I 
must remember that scheme when I have any- 
thing I dread doing." 

I'm always glad when plain country ^people 
come to see us. They have so much real know- 
ledge, ''mother wisdom," not gained second- 
hand from books, but learned from the earth and 
the air and the sky. Real contact with the soil has 
given them earth's secret knowledge, and they 
have, too, a quiet humor that is genial, with no 
sting. 

The other day a farmer and his wife dropped in 
as they were on the way home from town, and 
they sat upon the porch an hour or so. She told 
us of the canning and preserving she had done, of 
the vegetables she had dried, and the jelly she had 
made, till I was hungry for some of her water- 
melon rind preserves and her wild grape jelly. 
Her rusty hands held themselves rather stiffly 
in her lap, and she said with an apologetic laugh, 
*'It don't seem natural for me to be havin' my 
hands idle. I usually am sewing with a red-hot 
needle and a burning thread what time I'm resting. 



i8o Jfrom a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

There's so much to be done for folks — poor folks 
and children, and so on — that I feel like a body 
ought to be busy all the time." 

I felt an impulse to kiss those work-scarred 
hands, to let tears fall on them, for they seemed 
beautiful to me. 

"You should let other people do things for 
you, too," I murmured, whereat her husband 
broke in, ''That's what I'm always telling her. 
She'd disfumish herself or work herself to death 
for a nigger she never saw before. And she won't 
buy herself proper clothes, because she thinks other 
folks need them worse." 

"Now, Lemuel, you know I've got a beautiful 
new dress," she protested. 

"Yes, but I had to get it for you!" he threw at 
her. 

Turning to me with a boyish grin, his grizzly 
moustache twitching delightedly, he explained: 
"She wouldn't get a new dress, so I picked the 
goods out for her and bought it without sayin' 
anything. I took it to a dress carpenter and told 
her to put a firm foundation under it so it would 
be solid and substantial. She put in an under- 
pinning of some sort, then she clapboarded it, and 
shingled it with some whimmydiddly trimmin'. 



^ ^outjern exposure i8i 

I gave her orders to put the nails in firm, so's the 
dress wouldn't warp and come apart. It's a good- 
looking structure, too," he concluded pridefuUy. 

''I'm sure of it!" I said, twinkling my eyes at 
his wife. 

The talk drifted round to a wrong that a neigh- 
bor had done the couple, one of their ''no-relations 
that the children call uncle" as the man explained. 

"What did you do?" I asked the woman. 

"Why, I just forgave him, " she answered simply. 

"How could you?" someone asked. 

She looked past the pine trees to the blue sky a 
moment before she answered. "Folks talk about 
forgiving as being a Christian duty that's dis- 
agreeable, that most people dodge. I've come to 
believe that forgivin' folks is a luxury, a real treat 
that we too often deny ourselves. We hold a 
grudge sometimes, but if we only sensed it right, 
there's nothing more satisfying than to forgive 
somebody. And Mr. Black is a good man. I 
don't reckon many folks has a chance to forgive 
as good a man as he is." 

After the couple had gone, I sat thinking of 
what the woman had said. I longed to forgive 
somebody at that moment, to enjoy the resultant 
soul-luxury, but I couldn't think of any one to for- 



i82 Jfrom a ^outfjern JPorcfj 

give. I felt vexed for the moment that I hadn't 
any wrongs to wipe off with a gesture of the soul and 
I looked forward hopefully to a time when some- 
body would injure me so that I might forgive him. 

Then I thought of the Doctor. I might forgive 
him for killing Nip! I turned the thought over 
and round in my mind for a while, and finally 
decided that nobody deserved to be forgiven for 
an offense like killing a pet frog, even in accident. 
What would society come to if people went around 
forgiving things Hke that? No, I wouldn't do it! 

Mrs. Matthews came in for a little while, and I 
had her and the porch to myself. Her presence 
soothes me like a cool hand laid on the forehead, 
like a draught of water from a mountain spring, 
like the Amen of a prayer that is really a prayer. 
There's always a look of peace upon her face so 
that when I see her I realize how nervous and 
unreposeful most women are. 

''And whose woes have you been assuaging 
now?" I asked. 

"Oh, I never do anything," she protested. 
"I only listen. Sometimes I feel that I'm nothing 
but an ear — an auricular funnel into which people 
pour their troubles." 

"Listening is the rarest grace in the world, dear 



ja ^outfjetn €xpofiiure 183 

lady. Ears are uncommon, but the earth is full of 
tongues. The reason lots of folks never think is 
because they're forever talking, yet we should 
listen twice as much as we talk — for haven't we 
two ears to one tongue? Other folks get their 
relief by pouring their woes into your ear. How 
about you?" 

**0h, I pray about them, " she answered simply. 
** Prayer helps more than anything else." 

A musician came to see me the other day, and 
we had the whole porch to ourselves. After we 
had talked of various superficialities for a while, I 
noted an intent look on his face, and he held a 
listening finger on his lip. 

"What is it?" I asked. 

"I was trying to analyze the musical sounds in 
nature, trying to scale the harmonies going on 
about us." 

''Can you do it?" 

*'No," he said ruefully. "Our musical scale 
isn't equal to it. We have only tones and half- 
tones, while nature uses delicate shadings of 
sounds, fractions of tones we have no way of repre- 
senting. Our instruments are too crude for the 
finer harmonies of nature. Listen to that bird- 



i84 ifrom a ^outfjern J^orcf) 

song now. There's an intricate beauty, a tonal 
subtlety in those trills that no man-made instru- 
ment could give. That little brook as it goes 
singing over its stones has a rippling melody we 
can never capture, never give on any mechanism 
man has made. Listen to the wind among the 
pine trees! What organ could reecho those 
majestic diapasons, those sweeping chords?" 

*'I'd call them polyphonic prose," I answered. 
**They make me think of Amy Lowell's Can 
Grande's Castle. I think in terms of poetry, as you 
do of music. But there's a lovely rhythm in 
nature that forever eludes man and tantalizes him 
by its perfection. 

"Now, I lie here and try to scan these effects 
by metrical units. The sound of a galloping 
horse is pure dactylic. Of course, a bird song has 
a wild, over-running rhythm that no fixed foot will 
measure, yet I can frequently find snatches of per- 
fectly regular meters. The whistle of the quail. 
Boh White! Boh White! with its answer. All 
right! All right! is iambic, while the call of the 
redbird is amphibrachic — sounding like Receive 
her! Receive her! The jay bird speaks in simple 
spondees. Jay ! jay ! jay ! jay ! like the crow's 
spondaic Caw ! caw ! 



^ ^outljern Cxposiure 185 

*'The whippoorwill's cry of Whip poor Will! 
Whip poor Will I is an amphimacer, short in the 
middle and long on the sides. The phoebe bird 
sings in trochaics, Phoebe! Phoebe! Phoebe! Some- 
times the bird refrains will have acatalectic 
lines, but sometimes they are perfect in their 
scansion." 

**Have you worked out the verse forms they are 
using this season?" he smiled. 

"We have much free verse among the birds, too. 
The birds are fond of the repetend, as of the refrain, 
and use all sorts of metrical devices. I listen to 
them and try to fancy what poetic forms they're 
using of ours, or if they invent all their own. 
They'd probably scorn such artificial devices as 
the triolet, the ballade, and the like, but the 
sincerer songs, like the sonnet, they must be fond 
of. But no bird is long-winded enough to attempt 
an epic, for which I'm glad. The epic is an 
unnatural form, as is shown by the fact that no 
woman has written one. At least, I never heard 
of it if she did." 

After the musician went away, I sat by myself 
on the porch listening to the sounds about me. 
I heard a faint murmur of voices, and looked down 
to the curving stone seat where the hill begins 



i86 ifrom a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

to slope, to see Lucia and some young man 
there. I couldn't hear what they were say- 
ing, but the murmur sounded like proposal con- 
versation. The chipmunk ran along the wall to 
complain at me for their intrusion. What right 
had those young human beings to preempt the 
nice place in the shade right over his house, to talk 
of things he wasn't interested in at all? If the 
color of the masculine head down there had been 
chestnut, let us say, instead of sleek black, I 
might have shooed that chipmunk away and told 
him to let events of importance take their course, 
instead of interrupting love's exaggerations and 
sweet fictionings. 

But as it was, I said no word to that chipmunk, 
but only looked approval at his chatter. Why 
couldn't he scold a little louder? Didn't it ever 
occur to the stupid little beast that he might leap 
on a coat shoulder and bite a man's ear? That 
would bring forth a show of temper that might be 
disillusioning enough. I wished that I were a chip- 
munk so that I could try it myself, as any chip- 
munk should do when the wrong man is proposing 
to the sweetest girl in the world, right at his front 
door. Animals are so unimaginative ! Now, much 
as I'd like to, I couldn't bite the Doctor's ear 



^ ^outfjern €xposi\xxt 187 

without causing unfavorable comment, but a chip- 
munk could do it with impunity. 

But he didn't. 

A writer from New York, who was passing 
through this part of the country, came to see me 
a few days ago. In speaking of books he said, "I 
had ambitions to be a great writer, and I've missed 
it." 

* ' You may yet write the books you dreamed of, ' ' 
I suggested. 

He shook his head rather forlornly. "No, I'm 
almost sixty years old, and now the thought of 
death is ever present with me. 1*11 go on as I've 
done for a little while, and then a few years of 
semi-consciousness, of half -living — and then what? 
What lies beyond death? The thought tortures 
me!" 

"I think of death as a door," I answered gently. 
— " We'll just go on living, with a newer, better life. 
We'll know then the things that elude us now. 
We'll be wise, without the fret and worry of our 
brains to learn the truth. We'll be ourselves, but 
our best selves." 

" If I could only know ! " he cried. 

** We can't know everything," I said. ** We must 
trust, as little children do. The brain can't solve 



i88 Jfrom a ^outfjern l^oxth 



everything — for some things must be left to the 
heart." 

"I think that's the trouble with my life," he 
said slowly . " I * ve tried to live by the brain alone, 
and never by the heart. 

" Do you know Robert Wilbur? He's a cynical 
poet, a bachelor, but not long ago he said to me, 
'That phrase, "Except ye become as little chil- 
dren, ye cannot enter into the Kingdom," rings 
continually in my mind. 

"We all need to become as little children. True 
goodness, true greatness, is in being, not in striving. 
The children are the true sages, and poets and 
heroes, after all," I said. 

''Yes, children are such magical little creatures, 
too exquisite for adults to understand, and yet 
there are some people to whom a child is common- 
place. " 

He looked out across the lawn to the edge of the 
road where a barefooted youngster had stopped 
to play with a puppy. "I think it's only the old 
bachelors and the women who've never had chil- 
dren that appreciate them," he said humbly. "I 
live in New York, and the lonesomest thing about 
that town to me is that I don't know any chil- 
dren. And I need to know some children! A 



^ ^outftern Cxposiure 189 

child has no distressful thoughts about death, 

but I " 

"Listen a moment,'* I said, motioning toward 
the cornfield where Mose was singing as he worked. 

" Swing low, sweet chariot, 
Comin' for to carry me home! " 

Lower the sun was setting. Like a flaming 
wheel it rested on the edge of the clearing, shining 
across the open spaces, lighting with glory the pine 
woods at one side. 

" I looked over Jordan, and what did I see? 
Coming for to carry me home ! 
A band of angels comin' after me, 
Comin' for to carry me home! " 

As the myriad corn leaves were stirred by the 
wind, I heard a rustle as of unseen wings. The 
sweet, mournful voice sang on, the bent figure 
swaying to and fro in rhythmic motion with the 
song. The crude song had a pathos, not personal 
but racial, expressing the nostalgia perhaps of a 
homeless people for a home they had never known, 
symbolic of our longing for "a more continuing 
city." The untrained voice had a sweetness that 
grand opera never had for me, unconscious of 



190 Jfrom a ^outjjern ^orcfj 

the song's poignant beauty, unaware of any 
auditor. 

** Swing low, sweet chariot, 
Comin' for to carry me home! " 

Lower the golden wheel sank, still lower, lower 
still, its golden spokes glimmering through the 
banners of green. As the dusk came on, the song 
trailed off into silence, and shouldering his hoe, the 
black laborer came across the field. The chariot 
had passed, but its light lingered on our porch. 

"Coming for to carry me home," I echoed softly. 
**Home! There'll be little children there, for of 
such is the Kingdom of Heaven!" 

"Yes," the man said. And then he went away, 
without another word. 



VII 



BACK-PORCH CALLERS 

A MORNING on the back porch is a joy to be 
remembered. There's always something different, 
something new, to make each day individual ; yet 
the back-porch mornings blend indistinguishably 
together in a harmony of pleasant peace. Life is 
all about me there, in its manifold activities, its 
multitudinous stirrings, yet those hours are as 
restful as dream-haunted sleep, to be recalled 
afterward in the unresting stir of the city, as 
parentheses of peace. The hands may be busy 
on the back porch, but the mind is rested and the 
heart at ease. 

Sometimes, while we are at breakfast, Mose 
will come in, his ragged felt hat perched on one 
pensive finger, and remark, "Dey's corn an' 
butter beans an' cymblin's dat should be canned 
to-day ef you doan' wish 'em to spile." 

" Oh, can't they wait till to-morrow? " my indo- 
lence protests. 

191 



192 jfvom a ^outfjern J^orcfj 

He laughs indulgently. "Naw'm, dey's to- 
matoses dat'll have to be tended to to-morrow.*' 

*'0h, all right!" I capitulate, and move out to 
the back porch. What use to argue with a gar- 
dener whose hat bespeaks such long experience 
with the soil? 

I seat myself upon the second step and wait for 
the corn. Mose comes up with a great basket full 
of gay green ears, which he puts down before me. 

"What's the name of this corn? " I inquire, with 
a bucolic air. 

"Dey's Country Gentlemen," he answers. 

The Country Gentlemen are rather comic figures, 
with long blond beards and bright green garments, 
which I strip mercilessly from them. I am with- 
out shame. 

The hounds discover my presence and come 
up to be conversed with. The puppies, engaging 
young creatures with yelping spontaneity of move- 
ment and confiding eyes, leap all over me, till I 
have to cuff them affectionately with an ear of 
Country Gentlemen. They face the world with 
all the impudent irresponsibility of extreme 
youth, with an arrogant optimism, a blithe faith 
in a well-boned world. But the hounds have a 
disillusioned air that is touching. Is there any- 



Matk'l^ovcf) Calletjf 193 



thing more mournful than an elderly hound? He 
seems conscious of the indignity of his looks, with 
his slat sides, his loose, pendent ears, and his 
unlovely lines. A grown hound has the most 
apologetic air, forever beseeching pardon of heaven 
for being a hound. He will put his nose on your 
arm with a look in his melancholy eyes that says, 
** I'm homely and forlorn, and I expect nothing but 
to be kicked — but love me a little, if you can ! I*m 
lonesome!" Save when the fox is on the run, 
hounds are futile things, and realize the fact. 

These hounds, despite their effacing air, are a 
deal of trouble on this place. They are likely to 
break away at frequent times and go gallivanting 
over the countryside, settling down at some far 
estate where they are not in the least desired, so 
that the telephone jingles frantically for Mose 
to come and bring them home. 

Blunder, an old hound that had been given 
away, but who had wandered away from his new 
home and suffered all sorts of privations and ill- 
usage, came home to die not long ago. He was 
sick and starving and broken-hearted. He dragged 
his dreadful body about after us, looking at us 
with the mournfullest eyes in the world. He 
was so diseased that he could not live, and would 
13 



194 Jfrom a ^outfjern Scotch 



only bring contagion to the other dogs, so we 
gave him all he wanted to eat, and then someone 
chloroformed him while he slept. The Man of the 
House wouldn't stay to see it done, though. 

These dogs are ungainly creatures, yet the Man 
of the House loves them. He sympathizes with 
the sentiments of a former governor of Texas who 
was devoted to his dogs, but allowed his boys 
considerable license, till one day the youngest son 
kicked one of the puppies. The father promptly 
castigated the youngster, saying sternly, " Let that 
teach you a lesson how to treat dogs ! Kicking my 
fine puppy, indeed! And now I come to think of 
it, you've been disrespectful to your mother 

lately!" 

A hound justifies its existence because it is so 
affectionate. There's no luxury like being loved. 
With most persons or creatures, you have to pay 
the price in being lovable — it's worth it, even so — 
but a hound doesn't question your deserts. He'll 
lick your hand without asking for credentials. To 
have the sincere affection of a hound is worth a 
million dollars. Now, a bulldog's devotion has a 
menace in it, but you know a hound won't bite you, 
even though you richly deserve it. The hound is 
like some faithful, humble souls that love and 



J^ack-l^ovtf) Callers; 195 

expect no return. A bulldog is a problematic 
character. 

A little pig that has rooted under the boards of 
its pen comes running up, squealing in glee at his 
liberty and munches at the corn husks I throw him. 
I wish I knew the psychoanalysis of a pig. I look 
at the snub nose, the snoutish face, the slanted 
forehead, and wonder what emotions are behind 
all. Of what does the brain behind that retreat- 
ing brow think in the long, hot days when piggy 
lies and grunts? If I could know the language of 
his grunts! Does he have any premonitions, I 
wonder, that next Christmas this family will be 
eating home-cured ham and spareribs and back- 
bone? Do those nervous little feet know that 
presently they'll be pickled? 

Likewise do those chicks, those cuddly balls of 
fluff that blow like white and yellow thistledown 
about the steps, cheeping and scratching, realize 
their fate? These little things that clutch at the 
heart with their helplessness and beauty, — do they 
foresee the time when they'll be long-legged 
scrawny fowls and be put ruthlessly into the pot? 
And what of me? What pot of destiny with its 
crackling fires is being made ready for me, around 
the corner of some unconscious to-morrow? But 



1 

196 Jfrom a ^outJjern ^orcf) ^ 

never mind, this is to-day, and life is fair, so that 
little Pig, and Chicks, and I are wise to be happy ! 

I amuse myself with striving to range and 
arrange the possibilities of pig interest. There 
is the pig lyrical, the pig metaphorical, the pig 
epic, the pig dramatic, the pig comic. Doubtless 
this current pig is unaware of his cosmic and 
inspirational importance, though, on the other 
hand, he may, like certain others than pigs, over- 
estimate his relation to the universe. A more 
learned pigster than I am might trace the subject 
further. What a character in fiction the pig 
might be made! — for his dominant traits are 
pronounced and describable. Then how rich is 
the local color of the pigsty, how affluent the 
atmosphere! A practiced pig-stylist would find 
memorable material for description and exposition, 
yet the pig has been neglected in literature. For 
who but Lamb, the inspired, has roasted or toasted 
him wrapped in the leaves of a book? I love 
Lamb's letters for their constant thanks for gifts 

of pig. 

Then what animal is more endeared to the 
heart, more close to memories of home life than 
the pig ? One thinks how happily of Christmases 
past, when the pig, a triumphant brown, held the 



J3acfe=Porcf) Callers; 197 

apple of concord in his juicy mouth. Scents of 
sizzhng spare-ribs, of the back-bone of content, of 
little sausages frying in the pan, have power to 
transport me to my childhood days. I mind me 
of a certain country client of my father's, who used 
to visit us when she came to court, bringing gifts, 
like the Greeks, but of pig, not of horse. Such 
sausages, such country-cured ham, such chitter- 
lings! — who in cities knows of chitterlings? And, 
oh, the crackling bread that our old cook used to 
make! And chine, and pig's feet, pickled! My 
tongue rolls blissfully at the remembrance of all 
these piggish delicacies of the past. 

It is the pig that is really the forbidden fruit, for 
too much of him makes a mortal long to be as the 
gods, — witness the Germans of yesterday. Kul- 
tur has its factual basis in over-much sausage. 

Another memory of my childhood is connected 
more dramatically with a pig. We had, when I 
was extremely small, a pig litre. Its feet were 
unrestrained, and it intrigued me with its curly tail, 
so that life's one pursuit was to catch that tail and 
see if I could pull the curl out. Upon such trivial 
motives are great passions based ! I had no such en- 
trancing curls, — so why should a spotted pig aetat. 
a few months, while I was all of three years old ? 



198 Jfrom a ^outijern l^oxtf) 

One day, one never to-be forgotten day, I caught 
the tail and careered wildly and joyously around 
the yard behind it and the pig. Life's great 
adventure realized, life's inquisitiveness satisfied! 
The curl did come out! But the pig was unable 
to understand the purely scientific spirit of my 
research. He had not the anthropomorphic mind, 
hence couldn't fathom why I wished to entail 
such inconvenience upon him. But why these 
needless details? 

He ran faster, and so did I. I couldn't let go, 
and neither could he, though we were at one in the 
desire to be separated. He dashed under the edge 
of a low building, I straight behind, until a nail, 
sticking out, struck me in the forehead. Then I 
let go. A little angular scar in the edge of my 
hair remains with me till now as a memento of my 
interest in pigs, the mark of pig upon my brow. 

Then there is the pig lyrical. True, I've never 
seen a pig soaring above the empyrean clouds, 
but that's no proof that he doesn't do so when 
people aren't looking at him. Perhaps that's 
what he's up to when he square-roots his way out 
of the pen and is gone for hours at a time, necessi- 
tating much loss of time on the part of Mose. 
Or perchance he lyricizes at night. Perhaps the 



Jiacfe=Porcf) Callersf 199 

fairies lean over the bars of his pen and woo him 
enchantingly in the moonHght. Why not, pray, if 
Titania was in love with an ass's head? 

Nor have I heard any number of soulful songs 
about pigs, but my musical education is by no 
means complete. A man I knew in Oxford used 
to chant when he was feeling happy, 

"When we are married we'll have sausages for tea, 
When we are married we'll have sausages for tea. 
When we are married we'll have sausages for tea, 
Tum-ti-ttun-ti-tum ! " 

Now, I'm not sure that he ever had sausages for 
tea, but evidently the idea represented two states 
of perfect bliss for him : matrimony, and sausages. 
Then there is the pig dramatic. What 'scapes, 
what chase, what struggles, what pursuits have I 
known in connection with those few pigs in yon pen ! 
What complications of pursuing trousers with 
barbed- wire fences and blackberry vines! What 
colorful language issuing visibly from the lips 
of Mose! The household is plunged in gloom 
when the pigs get loose, and women wander 
helplessly from window to window to see the 
return. What impels those pigs to break away 
from their perfectly happy home, where they are 



200 Jfrom a ^outjjern J^otcfi 

swilled thrice daily, and where a whole family 
leans over the rails to gloat over each apparent 
extra pound of flesh ? Do they wish a wider land- 
scape, or just escape? Do they wish to go some- 
where, or just away? If I could but understand a 
pig, I should know more about my own impulses 
and motivations. 

There is also the pig metaphoric, who has 
appeared often in literature, though not always 
with a porcine terminology. There are many 
human pigs, not confined in sties, that are on the 
whole less admirable than their penned brothers. 
The pig symbolic has left his hoof -marks on many 
a printed page, without being aware of the fact. 

In the pasture near by the horses run and graze. 
The mother neighs solicitously after her little 
bow-legged colt on its preposterously long legs, 
looking like a small boy on stilts. Why do chil- 
dren never walk on stilts any more, I wonder? 
When I was extremely small, stilts were the height 
of fashion among children, small boys, and tomboys 
but now they are no more. Stilt-walking is an 
entrancing sport, and gives one a sense of supreme 
power. I loved it. I wonder what mental and 
moral stilts I use now, without knowing of them? 

Mose comes back with more corn, and brings 



JBacfe-^orcfi Callers? 201 



me a mole he has caught in the trap in the vege- 
table garden. Did you ever see a mole close at 
hand? It is a lovely little thing, with the softest 
fur in the world, softer than sealskin, and of a 
wonderful slate gray, almost blue, so fine and 
lustrous. Digger the Mole looks like a tiny pig, 
with its snout. It has no eyes, because it doesn't 
need any in the dark ground. It feet are of a 
curious paddle-shape, much larger in front than in 
the back, with five toes. It seems strange that 
such a beautiful animal should arouse the harsh 
feelings it does in the breast of kindly Mose. 
How does the mole fend for itself, with no eyes 
and no ears ? Does it merely feel the vibrations in 
the ground, as Helen Keller does? Is there some 
special wireless scheme for moles and earthworms ? 
Mose brought me a field mouse, too, that he had 
captured, a dainty creature, with its fur soft and 
gray, but not so delicate as that of the mole. It 
has cunning little ears, and delicate feet with four 
toes. Mose says it lives in the cornfield and 
destroys a deal of grain of one kind and another, 
but I think we can well spare enough for him. 

The old cat who lives in the barn comes up, 
bringing her kittens in her mouth, one at a time, 
and lays them down on the step beside me. She 



202 jfrom a ^outfjern ^orcfi 

knows she will not be allowed to keep them 
at the house permanently but she wishes per- 
haps to give them the advantages of travel and 
cultural society even for a time. I am glad of their 
presence, though they do make a muss. I have as 
high respect for this mother cat as for any human 
being I know. She is an unhandsome beast, 
brindled and rusty of coat, with unmanicured nails 
and a generally unkempt appearance. She used 
to belong to a country neighbor, who gave her to us 
on my earnest solicitation. The reason for my 
admiration for her is this. A year ago the other 
barn in which she was then living, with another 
batch of kittens, no more beauteous nor high- 
pedigreed than these, caught fire. The mother 
chanced to be away at the starting of the con- 
flagration, and arrived on the scene only in time 
to see her home ablaze, with shouting negroes 
wildly pounng Duckets o^ waeer and verbal abuse 
on the fire. 

What must have been the emotions of that 
mother cat, as she saw her house burning, and 
remembered her kittens ? She made a dash for the 
door, when some negro, always kindly to animals aS 
colored people are, attempted to head her off, 
not knowing her motive. She escaped his clutch, 



Jiacfe-^orcfj Callerj^ 203 

scratching him viciously as she did so, and dashed 
into the burning barn and up the stairs. She 
reappeared with a kitten in her mouth, put it down 
in a safe place outside, and leaped again into the 
fire. She made that trip four times, bringing her 
babies safely out, without a singe on one of them, 
but being badly burned herself. And they were 
only very ordinary little barn cats, at that ! It's 
most extraordinary what a mother will do! But, 
as I said, I cherish that cat. 

Aunt Mandy, who has come out to sweep up the 
porch, is minded to broom the cats away, but I 
restrain her. 

"Let them stay here, Aunt Mandy. I like 
society while I'm working with my hands, though 
I require solitude when I work my brain. Which 
shows, I think, that brain work is unnatural. " 

"Humph!" is all she says. 

The porch is so littered with kittens and Country 
Gentlemen that she has hardly any free space to 
5 weep. She makes a few futile strokes, then leans 
loquaciously on the broom. Aunt Mandy is 
different from me, in that society hinders her work, 
and conversation endlessly prolongs her task. Yet 
I have noticed no tendency on her part to refrain 
from talk. A colored person is more constantly 



204 ifrom a ^outfjcrn ^orcf) 



vocal than a white. If Aunt Mandy isn't talking, 
she is singing, and if you don't hear her doing one 
or the other, you may know she's huffed over 
something, so you'd better keep out from under 
her feet for the time being. 

After a time Aunt Mandy swept the porch 
to the tune of Peter, Go Ring Dent Bells, one of my 
favorites among her hymns. 

"Well, I heard a mighty rumbling, it was way up in de 
clouds. 
It was nothin* but Master Noah, he was readin* of 
de laws. 

Chorus : 

Oh, shout de glory, glory in my soul! 

We'll shout an' sing to make de ol' yearth ring. 

All join hands an' march to de heabenly King, 

Oh, children, 'twon't be long befo' we hear Gabriel's 

trumpet sound! 
Well, Peter, go ring dem bells; 
Peter, go ring dem bells; 
Peter, go ring dem bells. 
Fve heard fum heaben to-day! 

Well, go away po' sinner, don't you grieve long after 

me, 
Kase I have a heap of trouble tryin' to buy yo' 

liberty!" 

Chorus : 



JJacfe-^otc?) CalleriJ 205 



Mose comes up with a basket of butter-beans 
and a handful of luscious plums. He caressingly 
scratches the back of one hound that huddles 
against him, and murmurs tenderly, ''Git erway 
fum heah, you onery, lazy, wuthless hound, you!" 

''Mose, who'se that colored boy going along the 
road so fast, all dressed up in his Sunday clothes? " 
I query. 

As Mose looks, he laughs secretively. "Dat's 
Jephtha, Milly's boy. He's gwine to town to 
have hydrophobia. " 

"What?" 

"Yas'm, dat's hit. Hydrophobia. He has hit 
ebery time his ma gits paid off. " 

' ' Tell me about it ! " I demand. 

Mose chuckles reminiscently. "Wellum, about- 
en a yeah ago, dat triflin', no-count nigger 
got bit by a dog dey said was mad. Tain't hu't 
him, of co'se, becase nothin' gwine to kill dat 
nigger. But his ma, she kinder worry bouten hit. 

"One day in town, dat shiftless Jephtha hearn 
somebody say dat a pusson what's bit by a mad dog 
should take de pasture treatment, or some sich 
name. Dey say, do', dat hit cost cornsiderable. 
Well, dat nigger went home to he ma, an' tell her 
he boun' to hab money fo' dat cure. She say she 



2o6 jFrom a ^outfjern Jorcfj 

ain' kin spare hit, which was de tnife, 'kase hit's 
all she kin do to buy tobacco an' shu'ts fo' that 
lazy boy. Wellum, dat boy, he begin to foam at de 
mouf, an' roll roun' on de flo' an' yell out, 'I got de 
hydrophoby! I got hydrophoby!' 'twell his ma, 
she gin him de money in a hurry. He went to town 
an' bio wed hit in on movin' pickshur shows an' 
ice-cream sodys. An' when he come back home, 
he say he wus cured fo' de time being, but dat de 
doctors say de fits was likely to come back at any 
time. An' den, of co'se, he must take more 
treatment. 

** Wellum, dat boy, he take de fits ebery month 
come he's ma's pay-day, when Mis' Weaver; whar 
she cooks for, pays her her wages. Den Jephtha 
he puts on his best clothes an' goes off to town to 
enjoy his hydrophobia." 

"Why doesn't somebody tell his mother the 
truth?" I cry indignantly. 

"Wellum, dat Jephtha, he's mouty sly, an' no- 
body roun' heah want's dey bam set on fiah, or 
dey's best dog pisoned, or nothin' lack dat. Dat 
boy, he'd do anything. " 

As Mose ambles off down the hill toward the 
garden, I watch a hen cross the road in front of 
an auto. What is there in hen psychology that 



iBacfe^J^otcfj Calletflf 207 

makes her think she has urgent business on the 
other side of the road whenever an auto passes? 
She will call her chicks after her, and is distracted 
if they don't mobilize in the center of the road 
under the very wheels of danger. Perhaps she is 
merely teaching them a noble scorn of danger, or 
maybe she thinks she has a few too many of them. 
Mayhap she suspects that some of them are not 
her own, but have been changed in shell, and she'll 
get rid of them in easy fashion. Or perhaps hens, 
as other creatures, find it difficult to adjust them- 
selves to conditions their ancestors wot not of. 
Carts, now, and buggies, have been known to 
chickens for countless feathered generations, 
hence they may be instinctively avoided, while the 
auto-complex is new. 

The other day an aeroplane passed over the 
place here, and the fowls and birds were pro- 
digiously upset by the occurrence. The catbird 
flashed his broad tail indignantly, the chickens 
flew to cover, the buzzard on a distant fence 
flapped his ungainly wings inquiringly, and the 
pigeons circled in the air as if bewildered by the 
flight of this monstrous, noisy bird, that went 
so fast to its nest, or else was out seeking what 
it might devour. I wonder if the birds near 



2o8 jfxotn a ^outfjern ^^orcfi 

aviation camps, on the contrary, did not learn to 
treat aeroplanes with disdain? Perhaps the 
migratory birds will presently arrange to take their 
spring and autumn passage in flying machines, thus 
saving time and wing energy. 

If the birds and animals only knew how to 
organize properly, they might have an easier time 
than they do now, though I dare say it is nicer as 
it is, for the human world is getting organized to 
excess. Anyhow, though animals may miss much, 
they escape more. A rabbit doesn't have to 
bother about income taxes, as a squirrel is upset 
by no changes in fashions of fur. The rent prob- 
lem never troubles a woodchuck, and a polecat 
doesn't have to ride in a crowded street car, though, 
if he did, I'm sure the other passengers would 
allow him plenty of room. Animals are pretty 
well off, after all, as are colored persons in the 
country, who show their happy attitude toward 
life. Optimism seems related in some occult 
way to pigmentation, for the blacker the skin, 
the kinkier the hair, of a negro, the more 
joyous and blithe is he in disposition, the more 
heedless of any to-morrow. But as the skin is 
bleached to brown, then white, the laissez-faire 
policy is changed to the motto, **Do it now, 



Jiacli-^otcf) CallersJ 209 

and do it quickly, or the other fellow will do 
you!" 

The animals are wiser, and we should learn of 
them. We should go to school to the squirrels 
and the puppies, in the open, rather than be shut 
up in gloomy halls with spectacled professors, fos- 
sils that never were alive. 

Thomas Jefferson Randolph is at this minute 
lying on his back in the shade of an oak tree near 
by, and singing to himself. He'll never have a 
doctor's degree, but then his hair will never grow 
thin, and his eyes lose their brightness by peering 
at print in musty libraries. Thomas Jefferson 
Randolph is interested in the things that really 
count, as one may tell from his song. 

"Raccoon up de 'simmon tree, 

Possum on de groun*. 

Raccoon say to de possum, 

'Won't you throw dem 'simmons down?' 

Chorus : 

In de mawnin' you shall be free, 
In de mawnin' you shall be free, 
In de mawnin' you shall be free, 
When de good Lawd set you free. 

or Brudder Ben an' ol' Sister Luce 
Gwine telegraph to ol' terbaccer juice 



2IO jfrom a ^outfjern ^orcf) 

What a great camp-meetin* gwine to be 
When dey ride in de chariot in de mawnin'. 

Chorus : 

In de mawnin' you shall b6 free, 
In de mawnin' you shall be free, 
In de mawnin' you shall be free, 
When de good Lawd sets you free." 

Tish comes up, at that moment, from the bam 
where she has been to hunt eggs. Why do hens 
persist in leaving the safe and sane nests provided 
for them by thoughtful friends and going off to 
secretive comers? Tish has a box in her hands 
which she lays down excitedly before me. I look 
inside and see, alas! There are thirteen little 
dead chickens, forlorn little corpses that had never 
known really what was life. 

"Ah, what was the matter?" I cry in anguish. 

'*Dat crazy yaller hen, dat I been chasin' fum 
pillar to pos' to fin' her nest fo' near-bout a month, 
she done stole her nes' in the hin' comer ob de loft 
in de bam, whar nobody ain' hardly ever go. De 
ol' huzzy ! She mought 'a' knowed dat dem baby 
chicks couldn't hop outen a high box lack dis- 
here is! An' she ain' kin pick dem out in her 
mouf lack de ol' cat kin her kittens. Des look 
dere now, — thutten little chickens dat would 'a' 



J^atk'l^ouh €Mtx^ 211 

been fryin' size in de shake ob a dead sheep's 
tail." 

I gaze tearfully at the piteous, wee corpses, 
thinking what must have been their sufferings of 
slow starvation, with maybe that idiot hen gal- 
livanting off on pleasure trips, leaving the babies 
to die of neglect. Or maybe she was there be- 
side them clucking grievedly as they died. May- 
be she shouldn't be blamed for not having human 
intelligence. But poor little chicks ! 

Tish gathers the box up in her apron, resentful 
of fate. ''Look lack dat our chickens heah is jes' 
nachelly conjured. What wid the hunnered chick- 
ens dat Missis had in de incrubator, dat she 'lowed 
to die de day befo' dey hatched, 'case she tunned 
de little oil lamp up too high; an' de ones in de 
yudder settin' ob de incrubator, whar de blastin' 
dat dem workmen yonner de hill done kilt, hit 
do look lack we is bawn to bad luck wid chickens. 
An' de weasel an' de fox an' de rats ketches mo', 
out en de henhouse, 'twel hit keep me purty neah 
deestracted. " 

But I feel no sympathy with her economic 
grievances, for my pangs were all for the poor 
baby chicks. To think how they must have 
looked forward to getting out of those shells, only 



212 Jfrom a ^outfjetn ^orcJj 

to find themselves in a box they couldn't get out of ! 
Life is incomprehensible and cruel for chicks, 
sometimes. 

I think with regret that perhaps if we had 
followed the custom of the Mexican peon in having 
the animals and fowls blessed for the year, such 
calamities would not happen. Among those sim- 
ple folk, one of their innumerable saints* days is 
set apart for a sacred rite connected with the 
animals. Every peon brings his pigs, his chickens, 
ducks, geese, donkeys, cows or whatever live stock 
or feathered property he may possess, to the court- 
yard of the church, where the priest pronounces 
upon them a blessing valid for the year. This 
benediction is supposed to keep away plague, theft 
and sudden death, though, of course, if an animal 
should die before the allotted time, no good Mex- 
ican would think of holding the priest responsible. 

The charm is thought to be more operative if 
the blesses are freshly washed, combed, and if 
possible curled and dyed beforehand. Hence, at 
one of these rituals one may see blue chickens, 
scarlet geese, orange ducks, burros with rainbow 
stripes, gay pink dogs, and even purple cows. 

The friend in whose home I spent a month in 
Cuernavaca told me of her experience with the 



Pacfe=3^orcFi Callersf 213 

rite. Her husband is a physician, and one year a 
grateful patient, living in the mountains, bestowed 
upon him a lion as a gift of appreciation for some 
marvelous cure. When the next animal-saint's 
day rolled round, the peon who had charge of the 
lion insisted that his protege must be blessed with 
the others. 

So the cage was rolled on a cart to the court- 
yard of the church. But the jarring motion must 
have loosened the door, or else the lion had access 
of strength because of indignation over the liber- 
ties taken with him, for he broke out of his cage 
in the middle of the ceremony. The benediction 
was cut short, the congregation scattered widely, 
painted birds and beasts flying in all directions, 
and the faith of the peons was rudely shaken. 
After that the padre made a rule that lions were 
outside official blessing. 



n 



VIII 

A LITTLE STUDY IN BLACK AND WHITE 

Some mornings Aunt Mandy searches me out 
on the front porch with wheedlement like this: 
**Ef you was minded to string de beans an' shell 
de peas fo' dinner whilest Tishie finishes de ironin', 
I mought could spare de time to knock you up a 
caramel cake dis mawnin'. " 

"Oh, all right!" I assent, gladly abandoning 
whatever favored form my lounging may be taking 
at the time, in favor of Aunt Mandy's famous 
caramel cake, which is one of my chief joys in life. 

"I done set you a rockin'-cheer out on de kitchen 
po'ch whereby Tishie's got her ironin' bo'd, " says 
Aunt Mandy, and I follow her to the rear. 

I move my rocking-chair as far as possible from 
Tishie's sphere of activity, however, for the char- 
coal burner on which she "hots" her irons is rather 
warm for comfort on a summer day. The kitchen 
porch is an ideal place in which to work, for it is 

shaded by tall, cool trees, and open to the breeze 

214 



i 



M mnit ^tubp in JSlacfe anb Wi^itt 215 

from three directions. Besides, it has an unob- 
structed view of the road, which is the reason why 
Tishie elects to work here whenever possible, no 
doubt. We can see all the passers-by, the 
calicoed and shirt-sleeved negroes, the motor- 
ists from town, the horseback riders, and the 
strollers. 

Tishie is a good-looking young mulattress, hence 
I notice many colored persons like to stop for a 
drink of water from the well when she is working 
on the kitchen porch. For instance, Wash Allen, 
a big, upstanding buck negro, rounds the curve of 
the hill almost as soon as I take my seat, saying 
casually, ''I'se powerful thirsty." 

"He'p yo'self, " says Tishie, with a flirt of her 

red-ribboned head. 

Wash drinks slowly from the tin cup taken from 
beside the pump handle, casting upward eyes at 
Tishie, who thumps her iron vigorously, pretending 
to take no notice of him. 

Presently he leans on the railing of the porch, to 
say unctuously, "Seems lack you wu'ckin' mough- 
ty hard, Miss Tishie. You gwine kill yo'self ef 
yo' doan quit wu'ckin' so hard. Fust thing you 
knows, dey'll be singin' at yo' house, an' you won't 
be hearin' hit." 



2i6 Jfrom a ^outfjern J^orcfj 

**Doan reckon dey's any danger ob you wu'ckin' 
you'self to death!" retorts she. 

Wash only giggles, otherwise ignoring her snub, 
which he knows is induced by my presence. 

"Shore was some rain we had las' night!" he 
remarks affably. "Reg'lar gully-washer an' toad- 
strangler!" 

** Where do you work, Wash?" I inquire. 

**I wu'cks at Marse Jimmy Parsons, in de white 
house ober by de Three Chop Road, " he says. 

''Have they any children?" 

**Naw'm, dey ain' got no chillun. Ain' nothin' 
runnin' round dey house cep'n a fence, " he grins. 

*'Does you like hit dere?" asks Tishie. 

*'Yas'm, most inginerally I does. But some- 
times I gets de worry -blues, an' I reckon I wouldn't 
be corntented anywhere. " 

**Huh! don't be such a hen-granny!" sniffs 
Tishie. 

**Miss Tishie, is you gwine wid me to de festible 
next Sat 'day night?" asks Wash. 

She gives a flash of her eyelashes at him as she 
answers, "I mought in case I was asked. " 

*'Well, I'se askin' you now," he returns. 

"All right." 

Wash takes another long draught from the tin 



^ mttlt ^tubp in JBlack anb Mf)itt 217 

cup, sets his hat on one side of his head, and is off 
down the hill. 

I look down the road presently to see a creaking 
buggy with a black man, a mulatto woman, and 
two ginger- cake pickaninnies in it. The man 
alights from the buggy and starts on foot up the 
hill toward the house. 

' * Here's Amsi. I reckon he's comin' to give you 
howdy, " says Tish. 

Amsi is a friend of former years, who used to 
work for the family, an estimable darkey who has 
recently finished a penitentiary term for murdering 
his wife. In fact, he was out on parole when he 
was with us. I once asked him why he killed her, 
and he seemed reticent as to details, merely mum- 
bling that she * ' was carryin' on wid anodder nigger. ' ' 

*'Amsi done got married again since las' surt}- 
mer, " Tish informs me. **Dat no-count yaller 
Lily." 

By that time Amsi is almost at the porch, his 
black face shining cordially. 

' ' Howdy, mistis ? How you is ? " 

"I'm well, thank you. I hear you're married. " 

"Yas'm," he grins. "I got tired o' cookin' 
mah vittles all de time. Dat's Lily an' de chillun 
in de buggy now." 



2i8 Jfrom a ^outftern Ij^ottf) 

"So you married a widow? How long has her 
husband been dead?" I ask friendlily. 

Amsi shuffles his hat. ' * He ain' ecsackly dead. *' 

"Oh, so she was divorced?" 

He shifts his weight to his other foot in embar- 
rassment. "Naw'm, she ain' divo'ced, neither. 
We ain' never believe in no divo'ces. Dey doan' 
seem decent to us. Her husban', he ain' ecsackly 
dead, 'case he ain' never been bawn. She ain' had 
no husban' befo' me. " 

"Whose children are those, then?*' 

"Dey's Lily's chillun. Dem chillun, mistis, is 
sorter happen chances, you know. Well, I reckon 
I better be gwine long. Gotter be travelin'." 

And the fiercely virtuous Amsi creaks down the 
road again, with his new family. 
. Presently after a few discursive thumps with the 
iron, Tishie pauses for convensation again. 

"Dere comes Jubal Jones. I wonder whut he's 
comin' up heah fo'. To borrow somep'n, ob co'se. 
Jubal Jones is de borrowin'est pusson I eber seed. 
He'd borrow de hair off'n yo' haid an' swear he'd 
put hit back next Chewsday . ' ' 

Jubal Jones approaches with a conciliatory step. 

"Howdy, mistis. Sho' is a scrumptious mawn- 
in', ain' hit?" 



1 



^ %ittlt ^tubp in ^laclt anb mf)itt 219 

* ' Huh ! * ' Tishie grunts to her iron. ' * Look lack 
he claimin' de credit fo' producin' de mawnin'!" 

**Yes, it's a very nice day," I concede defen- 
sively. 

He pulls the lobe of one ear with ingratiating 
fingers. 

"I was jes' steddyin* bout how to take my ol* 
woman to church to-morrow. You know dere's 
a protracted meetin' goin' on ober by de Four Mile 
Mill, by Tuckahoe Creek.** 

"Yes?" 

**My ol' woman needs religion, an* hits too fur 
fo' her to walk. Marse Kilpatrick, what Marthy 
washes fo' his wife, done loaned me his blin* hoss 
to drive, but I ain' got nothin' to drive hit to. " 
He pauses with insinuation. 

''And so?" I query courteously. 

"I was a wondering ef you all would lend me de 
use ob dat oV buggy you got in de shed, fo' de day. 
Hit's sorter lack loanin' to de Lawd, you sees. " 

''Well, yes, I guess so," I consent. "Stop by 
to-morrow and tell me about the sermon. "This 
last is intended more to insure return of borrowed 
property than to evince urgent interest in the 
protracted meeting. 

"Yas'm, I sho' will," he declares vehemently. 



220 Jfrom a ^outlbern S^oxti 

"Our pastor, he is a ponderous expounder. He 
preaches by inspiration an' presperation. He 
don't hatter study. He ain' kin, in fac', 'case he 
ain' kin read. Dat sarmon ob his las' Sunday was 
sho' stirrin'!" 

"What was it about?" 

"Hit was abouten whited sea-pulchers." 

"What is sea-pulchers?" asks Thomas Jefferson 
Randolph, who has wandered up. 

Jubal's chest swells with the pomposity of in- 
vited information. "Dey is dem great white 
birds dat flies atter de ships an' eats de corpses ob 
de folks what dies at sea. Doan you remember 
what de Bible says bouten' dem? Dey's full ob 
rottenness an' dead men's bones? Sea-pulchers is 
diff'rent fum land-pulchers. De land-pulchers is 
mo' lack de turkey buzzards. " 

"I see," I remark, with interest. 

"Yas'm, he sho' is one great preacher. He 
preached a sarmon on cleansiness Sunday befo* 
last. His tex' was 'Wash an' be clean ' ! " 

"Always appropriate," I comment. 

"Yas'm, " and Jubal goes off toward the garden 
to speak to Mose. 

Presently Mose comes up with a basket of vege- 
tables, wearing a rueful look. 



^ ILittU ^tubp in 5?lacfe anb Hfjite 221 

"Dat dere Jubal Jones, he sho' am one bor- 
rower!" he complains to the puppy. 

"What he git fum you?" queries T. J. R., 
vivaciously. 

"He done borrow ten cents fum me to put in de 
collection plate to-morrow. He ask fo hit in 
nickels, so's he could put in one an' his wife de 
odder. I ain' never heard o' borrowin' fo' de 
Lawd befo'. Mos' ginerally when folks borrows, 
hit's de debbil dat gets dey money. " 

Presently a gay express wagon, with red re- 
splendent wheels and vivid sides, comes up the 
road to the hill. It is drawn by a horse well gone 
in years and having none of the shining appearance 
of the vehicle, a tired, disillusioned horse, with 
limping foot and hungry sides. 

"Dat's Solomon Doolittle, deliverin' yo' white 
dresses his wife done wash, " Tishie tells me. 

Solomon Doolittle is of portly size and with a 
languid grace that a life of ease conveys. He 
presents the bundle with the air of one conferring 
a medal of honor. 

' ' Here's yo' dresses, mistis. Dey sho' is done up 
nice ! My Mariny , she sho' am a good washer, as 
well as a good cooker. " 

"That's nice," I respond, then fix accusing eye 



222 jfrom a ^outftern $orct) 

upon him. "Solomon, you don't feed that horse 
half enough! And you ought to attend to that 
lame foot." 

"Yas'm, a white lady done stop me on de road 
yistiddy an' say de society fo' cruelty to animiles 
will git me ef I doan feed hit mo'. But he ain' a 
hoss dat shows his feed, lack you know some hosses 
is dat way." 

"All the same, I advise you to feed him and 
doctor him better, " I sternly admonish. 

** Yas'm, I'll do dat, ef you thinks best. Hither- 
tofore I ain' ecsackly feed him. I jes' let him 
browse, but I gwine buy him some oatses ef you 
sesso. " 

"I do!" I asseverate emphatically, and Solo- 
mon drives off in his glorified cart. 

"Dat Solomon Doolittle sho' was well named," 
says T. J. R. 

"You is said hit!" agrees Aunt Mandy, appear- 
ing in the kitchen door to view the departing 
splendor of wheels. ' ' He am de laziest man, black 
or white, dat was ever bawn in dis county. Ef 
dey gives gold medals fo' laziness, I think Solo- 
mon Doolittle would git de worl' prize." 

"Where does he get the money for such a bril- 
liant cart if he doesn't work?" I ask. 



^ liittlt ^tubp in JSlacfe anb Mfjite 223 

*'Fum his chillun what dies. " 

**Do they have property to leave him?" 

"Naw'm, suttenly dey ain'. Dey's mos'ly 
babies. But dey has dey lives insured. ' ' 

"What?" 

**Yas'm, hit's lack dis. Solomon Doolittle 
been livin' in dat ol' tumble-down house ob' his 
fo' nobody knows how long. Hit set right plum 
on de groun', an' dat ain't healthy. One o' his 
chillun tuck cornsumption an' died, an' Solomon, 
he near 'bout grieved hisself to death be 'case he 
ain' never thought ob insurin' hits life. 

" Yas'm, most ob de colored folks roun' heah has 
dey lives insured, even to de little chillun. Dey 
is really mo' profitable, yo' know, 'case dey dies 
oftener. When Solomon Doolittle think about hit, 
an' when anodder one ob his chillun takes de corn- 
sumption, and is tooken down in de baid, he went 
an' had its life insured. Yas'm, fo' fifty dollars. 
When de chil' died, he bought him a lawn swing to 
set in. Yas'm, dat's mostly all he does, you know, 
sets, an' so he wanted a comf 'tble place to set in. 
His wife, she sports de family by taking' in washin'. 

''Wellum, when de chillun kep' dyin', yo' see, 
Solomon was feelin' right prosperous. Some folks 
raises cotton fo' a libin', an' some raises hawgs, or 



224 jFrom a ^outijern ^orcfi 

cawn. Solomon, he raised chillun. Colored folks 
has chillun awful easy, yo' know, — tain't no burden 
to dem lack hit is to white folks, so Solomon was 
gittin* up in de pictures. He was gittin' rich. 
But some white ladies must have repo'ted de sar- 
cumstances to de orcifers, 'case 'long come a health 
orcifer an' tol' Solomon he gotter move his family 
outen dat onhealthy place. Solomon, he say he 
ain' kin do dat, 'case dat's de onliest house he got. 
De orcifer, he say, ef Solomon doan move quick, 
he gwine put him in de penitentiary fo' murder. 
Yas'm, fo' murder! So Solomon, he moved. 

"He bought dat gorgeoussome wagon wid his 
last two chillun 's money, an' he goes 'round in it to 
deliber his wife's washin'. Yas'm, hit makes hit 
kinder hard on her, 'case, yo' see, Solomon 'spects 
her to do more, since hit's easier fo' him to deliver 
de wash." 

Aunt Mandy closes her monologue and the 
kitchen door with a bang and retires to her pots 
and pans. Amidst the rattling resultant I can 
hear the strains of her song. 

"Once dere was a moanin' lady. 
An' she libed in a moanin' land. 
And she had one onliest daughter, 
Snatched by de Lawd's command. 



^ ILittlt ^tubp in ^lath anb Hf)ite 225 

Moan, sinner moan, 

Till de good Lawd shall set you free ! 
Moan, sinner, moan, 

Till you come to glo-o-ory!" 

Tish and I look again toward the road, where 
now we can see Elder Burke, the pastor of the 
negro Methodist Church, going toward town in the 
"Prince Album" coat that the unmarried women 
of his congregation have given him. He is a 
widower of three months' standing, but the widows 
and near-widows of his flock are not standing. 

We can also see Louisiana and Alabama, the 
twins whom nobody in the county can tell apart. 
They wave joyous howdys to Tishie as they pass, 
by their gay costumes evidently bound for some 
pleasure excursion to town. 

Presently a champagne-colored boy about twelve 
years old comes up the hill, with a curious, loping 
movement like the gait of some woodsy animal 
that is lazily unafraid. He presents a folded piece 
of paper to Tishie, and kicks up pebbles with one 
warty toe, while she reads it. 

She smiles with guarded gratification, as she 
says, "Tell yo' ma I thanks her kindly, an' I'll be 
proud to come. I'll bring a poun' cake, I reckons/' 

He turns on one earthy heel and is off, his sus- 

15 



226 jftom a ^outfietn l^oxtf) 

penders but ill-supporting his recalcitrant trousers 
of blue denim, his blouse of indistinguishable color 
sticking out from his waist line. 

* ' Lucretia's Tave is gwine to be married, '* Tishie 
remarks. * ' Dis is de invite. " 

"Let me see it," I say. 

It is a printed affair, on cheap paper, and reads : 

**Tave Crabtree and Alabaster Jones will be 
married Wensday night at 8 o'clock. You are 
invited." 

Tishie gives me monologic information concern- 
ing the character of the coming festivity. 

**Yas'm, I done boun' to git a present fo' dis- 
here weddin', 'case dey doan let nobody in de do' 
dat ain' got a present. Dat's de ticket ob admis- 
sion, yo' know. Yas'm, if de present is wuth 
twenty-five cents, you can hab refreshments sarved 
to you. Yas'm, yo' got to leab de price tag on de 
bundle, so's dey kin check up on yo! An' yo' 
name, so's everybody kin see whut you gibe. 

"Yas'm, in co'se some ob dem do try to change 
de price tickets, to make de present seem more 
costive dan hit is, but mos' everybody knows what 
things cost at de five an' ten cent sto', and de 
twenty-fi' cent sto', which is whar we ginerally gits 
de gifts. 



^ ILittU ^tn\jp in lIBlatk anb Mhitt 227 

*'Yas'm, ef yo' pays fifty cents fo' yo' present, 
yo' kin hab two servin's ob refreshments, but it 
ain' mostly wuth hit. Naw'm, doan many ob 
dem cost fifty cents. We generally gits usessary 
things dat de bride an' groom kin use atterward. 
'Cose, de things dat you ain' kin use makes de mos' 
show at weddin's. 

"Yas'm, dey has cake an' wine at de weddin*. 
Yas'm, de guests dey furnishes de refreshments. 
Yas'm, Virginia is dry now, but dis is home-made 
wine, made outen blackberries an' sich lack. 
Some ob de neighbors gibes wine an' some brings 
cake. Yas'm, weddin's is very nice, but dey is 
expansive. 

''Yas'm, I knows dey is got jus' a little house, 
jes' two rooms, one upstairs an' one down. Yas'm, 
dey's moved all de furniture upstairs so's de guests 
kin hab room to stan' in. De bride's payrents, 
dey is gibe her a set ob golden oak furniture fo' de 
bedroom. Yas'm, dat's on exhibition downstairs, 
wid de res' ob de presents. De bed ain' put up, 
hit's jes' restin' 'gainst de wall. Yas'm, de neigh- 
bors will hab to stay atter de infare supper, to put 
up de bride's bed. Yas'm, weddin's is pleasant, 
but dey do eat up yo' ams. " 

Presently up the road toils a fat girl, of midnight 



228 Jfrom a ^outfjern l^ovtf) 



black. Her breasts resemble the inflated balloons 
one sees on circus day, and her hips billow as she 
walks. Her white-toothed smile is a livening thing 
to see. 

"Dat's Queen Victoria," says Tishie. "She's 
wu'ckin' for Miss Hadley in town now. " 

"Good-morning, Vic," I say cordially. "How 
do you happen to have the morning off on Satur- 
day?" 

"Wellum," she smiles expansively, "I done 
tooken hit off to invite mah frien's to mah baptiz- 
in' to-morrow. I'm gwine to be baptized. " 

"Tell me about it, " I suggest. 

"Wellum, everything's all 'ranged fo' now, 
cep'n fo' me to remin' mah frien's 'bout hit. I 
been gittin' ready fo' hit fo' near 'bout three months 
now. I done got in a lot ob baptizin' presents 
already. Yas'm, folks, dey gibes yo' presents 
when yo' is baptized. Dat's whut colored folks is 
baptized fo', mos' ginerally. Yas'm, I done got 
fo' pairs ob silk stockin's, an' a breas' pin, an' a 
bead bag, an' nine hanker-chers, an' two chromios, 
an' a red silk wais', an' a vanity-box, an' a lookin* 
glass, an' a lot ob odder things. Yas'm, hit's ex- 
pansive to be baptized, but yo' gits part ob yo' 
money back. 



^\ 



^ liittlt ^tubp in Mlatk anb Mi)itt 229 

"Yas'm, hit is expansive becase ob de clothes 
yo' is got to buy. Hit's tooken all mah wages fo' 
three months to git mah clothes. Yas'm, a 
pusson has to hab new clothes fum de skin out to 
be baptized in. Hit wouldn't do at all to go unner 
de water in yo' ol' clothes. 

''Yas'm, you is got to hab three separate suits, 
all complete fum de skin out. Yas'm, one is fo' 
to drive to de church in. I gwine drive in a blue 
suit. I got blue silk stockin's an' blue shoes, an' 
blue pettiskirt an' all to match. Yas'm, I hires 
a kerridge to drive to de church in. 

''Yas'm, den when I gets to de church, I has to 
change all mah clothes. Yas'm, dey alius does 
hit, I doan ecsackly know why. I'll dress in pure 
white fo' de baptizing. I got white shoes an' 
stockin's an' all to match. In co'se, do', I doan 
hab to buy a hat to wear in de water. Dat's 
one saving. 

* ' Den when I comes outen de water, I got to put 
on a new suit. I'm gwine to dress in pink den. 
Den I has to pay f o' de kerridge, yo' know. Yas'm, 
a baptized pusson alius hires a kerridge fo' de day. 
You gits hit cheaper by de day, yo' know, 'case de 
driver, he kin come in an' see you baptized. Yas'm, 
a pusson goin' to be baptized rides aroun' in it in 



230 Jfrom a ^outfjetn J^orcf) 

de mawnin' to invite her frien's to come to see her 
baptized. Yas'm, dey knows 'bout hit befo'hand, 
but dey likes bein' pussonly invited. Yas'm, I'm 
comin' out heah de day befo', case de jitney charge 
too much to come out heah in de mawnin'. I 
come out de street car dis time. But to-morrow, 
in co*se I couldn't ride on de street car. Hit 
wouldn't be proper. 

" Atter de baptizing I drives 'round all de atter- 
noon. I gwine be baptized 'bout fo' o'clock, yo' 
know, an' dat leaves a lot ob time befo' sundown 
to drive in. Yas'm, I know hit takes all yo' wages 
to be baptized lack dis, but hit sho' am nice to 
be a lady fo' one whole day. Yas'm, hit's wuth 
hit." 

And Queen Victoria waddles down the hill again, 
after voluminous thanks for my contribution to 
her carriage hire. 

I decide that, after all. Queen Victoria's phi- 
losophy is not half bad. She gets a deal out of her 
existence, more than many white persons whom I 
know do. There are persons, Anglo-Saxons, to 
whom life seems a series of desiccated duties, duties 
with the substance there, of course, but lacking all 
juice, all freshness. I'd rather be like Vic. 

From the wood-pile comes Mose's voice in song. 



ja mttlt ^tubp in JJlacfe anb mf}itt 231 

"I went to ol' Nappie's house one night; 
or Nappie wasn't at home. 
But I took mah seat by a pretty yallar gal, 
An' I picked upon an ol' jaw-bone. 

Refrain: 

Oh, Susanna, don't you cry fo* me. 
I'm jus' fum Alabama, with mah banjo on mah 
knee!" 

Lucia and the Professor stroll up the hill, from 
a walk in the woods, and she drops down on the 
steps by me, while he goes away to town. Tishie 
has finished her ironing, and starts setting the 
table for lunch on the side porch. I can hear her 
singing as she rattles china and silver : 

"Or Aunt Sukey, what yo' got fo' supper? 
Sparrowgrass, chicken-foot, an* not a bit o' butter. 
Got any good thing, save it, save it. 
Got any good thing, save it twell I come!" 

"Lucia, I'm planning for you and the Professor 
to be married, " I say facetiously in earnest. 

** Never!" she cries vehemently. "He seems 
to me like a granite monument covered over with 
Greek and Sanskrit inscriptions that I can't make 
out. " 

' ' How delightful ! " I cry . "I should think that 
would appeal to your sense of curiosity. Who 



232 jFrom a ^outjern J^otcfi 

wants a husband she can entirely make out, or 
make over?" 

"Yes, but " 

"Those inscriptions are probably nothing more 
alarming than ancient love poems. And just think 
what fun it will be deciphering them all the rest of 
your life! — a word at the breakfast-table some 
morning, a line on an anniversary, a whole sentence 
maybe, when you're ill." 

"He looks so stern, as if he had such capabilities 
of displeasure in those eyes. He looks to me like 
a blue-eyed iceberg!" 

"But, you see, you never can tell much about 
icebergs, because only one seventh of them shows 
above the water. The other six-sevenths may 
be melting with tropic emotions for all you 
know." 

"Yes, but I'd want to know!" 

"The trouble with you, Lucia, is that you've 
been spoiled. You think that men and colored 
persons were born into the world to wait on you. 
You think because a man doesn't give himself 
rheumatism singing ditties to you in the damp 
grass at two a.m. that he has no sentiment. At 
that very moment he's probably punching his pil- 
low trying to think out a plan to make a fortune 



^ ILittlt ^t«bp in JSlacfe anb mi^itt 233 

or a fame for you, which is better than serenading 
underneath your window. " 

Lucia blushes divinely. "You are so absurd! 
This — person you speak about doesn't care for me 
at all. He's never said the least word about ro- 
mance. " 

**He doesn't say anything?" I question closely. 

"No! He doesn't say anything, and he doesn't 
say anything, and he just keeps on not saying 
anything!" 

"Well, he may have an impediment in his 
speech, but his eyes aren't dumb ! " I retort. ' * And 
any way, Boston men aren't as ready proposers as 
Virginians. Just give him time enough and he'll 
tie himself." 

' * Oh, I don't want him to say anything ! " Lucia 
blushes still more furiously. "Only — only — it 
seems a little — just the least bit — discourteous, 
don't you think? — for a man to hang round and be 
so silent, so long?" 

"I like him!" I retort stubbornly. 

"Oh, you like everybody!" she accuses in dis- 
gust. 

"I don't like all people the same!" I defend 
myself. "I have grades of preference, and he's in 
Grade A." 



234 Jftom a ^outfjern $orcfi 

"Not with me!" she cries, escaping into the 
house. 

"It isn't time to turn in the final grades yet!** 
I hurl after her. * * There are various tests to come 
yet." 

The old cat, who has brought her kittens again 
out to visit me, licks them devotedly and looks 
up at me with eyes full of affection, as if to say, 
"Aren't they adorable?" The homeliest hound 
on the place lies down at my feet with a low whine 
of affection. Love is the rarest thing in the world, 
but the commonest as well. It is not like genius, 
or wealth, or fame, or great success, restricted to 
the few. Anybody can have love abundantly, 
if he only wishes it. 

Just as I decide to move into the house, MiUy 
Andrews comes by to get a drink of water, as she 
is passing on her way to her home. She stops to 
talk with me a few moments. Milly's voice is 
music, every accent a caress, and Milly herself is one 
of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. 
She is almost white — almost, but not quite ! — with 
the almost that means everything in the South. 
With only the slightest trace of African blood, she 
looks like an Italian princess should, with her 



^ mttlt ^tubp in JSlacfe anb IKfjite 235 

mournful dark eyes and the midnight plume of her 
lustrous, waving hair, with the crimson quiver of 
her rich lips and the curve of her soft cheeks. Yet 
Milly is a negress — so considered — who lives in the 
negro settlement near here and works as a house- 
maid in town. 

While Milly talks with me, her eyes uncon- 
sciously arraign the world, and, as she walks away, 
my eyes follow her down the hill, suffused with 
angry tears at the thought of Milly's life. And yet 
what possible solution is there? 

MILLY 

What wild desires, what tragic dreams are thine 1 — 
What chafing at the fetters of thy fate, 
What yearning for the impossible, what hate 

Of thy low serfdom in thy dark eyes shine ! 

That fragile form was never made for toil ; 
Those slender fingers have an artist's grace, 
And the wild, haunting beauty of thy face 

Makes every impulse of the heart recoil 

From destiny's decree. Thy soul is white! — 
And thy false fatherhood hath dowered thee 
With Anglo-Saxon brain — yet, tragedy 

Has claimed thee for its own, the racial blight ! 

Must bend thy head to bear the servile yoke. 
That proud, dark head, erect in queenly scorn! 



236 ifrom a ^outftern ^orcj 

For those few drops of black blood thou art bom 
To live-long shame no power may revoke. 

Thou daughter of a race of cavaliers, 

Banished forever from thy next of kin, 

Must pay the penalty for others* sin, 
Must house thee in low negro huts, meet sneers 

Of cynic men, must call thy hopes to heel, 
And face the slaughter of thy dearest dreams. 
While thy white womanhood a lily seems, 

Tis mired by the muck of negroid it reveals ! 

Ah, what must be thy father's memories 
To hear thy lyric voice and know that thou 
Art his own shame-born daughter that doth show 

The darkling splendor of those mournful eyes ? 

To see in thine his mother's pure, pale brow. 
And the blossomy curve of scarlet, sensitive lips 
His young, dead sister's own ! What scorpion whips I 

Of impotent remorse his soul must know! 

For his sin, thou the unending shame must bear, 
While he, unpunished, in his world walks free — 
Thou innocent, yet worse than murderer, he 

Has damned thee to a lifetime of despair ! 



IX 



EATING ON THE PORCH 

Eating on the porch is more than a mere utili- 
tarian process devised for the renewal of waste 
tissues. It is a physical delight participated in by 
all the senses. The eyes feast as well as the palate, 
the ears drink in intoxicating sounds, and the 
nose — ah, how that nose does enjoy itself! One 
eats with all the pores of the skin, with the hair. 
One eats more than mere food, but devours as well 
the dew-washed morning, and swallows the banks 
of honeysuckle like a honey-hungry bee. The 
joyous birds slip singing down one's throat, one 
quaffs the lake and the lucid brook at a draught, 
crumples pine trees as salad, and finishes off with 
marsh-mallow clouds. 

Eating on the porch is a rite beyond the fancy of 
city folk who bolt their meals and eat only news- 
papers with them. Printer's ink is bad for the 
digestion, as any puppy can tell you. The city 
person is dead when he eats, and a corpse never 

237 



238 Jfrom a ^mitfiern ^ortb 

does properly assimilate his victuals. But on 
the porch, in the country, one is altogether alive, 
and eating is a privilege given by the gods to a 
few mortals peculiarly deserving. Colored persons 
are gifted in this respect, and I am like them. 
Eating is with me a rapture. I look forward with 
gustatory bliss to each meal in turn, and afterward 
regard it with reminiscent delight. In fact, I am 
unable to wait for proper meal time, but must be 
eating at all hours. Food is so delicious that my 
joyous digestion and happy appetite are constantly 
a-quiver with anticipation. 

Eating on the porch has for me all the excite- 
ment of foreign travel. To me, the greatest joy 
of a dining-car or a table in a steamship on the 
river, lake or sea is that you can see so much while 
you eat. The landscape changes more rapidly 
than the courses, and you, if you properly protract 
your meal, can devour fifty or so miles of field and 
forest or waves, without having them included in 
the check. Likewise, on a porch, you can see a 
panorama of interest. 

My day of eating may begin with breakfast in 
bed on the sleeping-porch, if I like. Of course, I 
don't always care for this, but sometimes I love 
to snooze till late, in which case Thomas Jefferson 



bating on tfte ^orcli 239 

Randolph Jones brings me my tray. T. J. R. has 
in a manner adopted me, and follows me about, 
looking after my comfort and waiting on me. 
When my mother used to tell me of the number of 
slaves on her father's plantation when she was a 
child, and of how she was waited on by countless 
pickaninnies, I used to wail, ''Oh, mother, why 
couldn ' t y ou save one for me ? ' ' Thomas Jefferson 
Randolph must have read the longings of my soul, 
for he waits on me. Perhaps the casual offerings 
of coin I give him from time to time encourage 
his devotion, but at any rate, I am well cared 
for. 

Eating breakfast in bed is a treat to me, but not 
a habit so fixed, so a necessity, as in the case of 
some friends of mine who have no maid but like 
the luxury of breakfast in bed. The wife arises, 
prepares the meal, serves her husband his grape- 
fruit and coffee on newspapered pillow, and then 
goes back to bed. Presently he arises and brings 
her tray to her. I don't know who washes the 
dishes. 

Thomas Jefferson Randolph comes up the stairs 
with soundless barefoot step, but the clink of dishes 
notifies me that my tray approaches. T. J. R.'s 
morning grin is an affair heartening to behold in a 



240 Jfrom a ^outjjern ^otcfi 

world where so many adults have forgotten how to 
grin, if indeed, they ever knew. 

" Good-ma wning ! How you is dis mawning?" 
he asks as he deposits the tray on my counterpane. 
"How you done slep'?" 

* * Perfectly ! " I assure him. ' ' I had such lovely 
dreams that I'd have grieved at waking up if this 
hadn ' t b een such a miracle of a morning . I wonder 
how it contrived itself. 

"Tain' no miracle — jes' lack de mawnin's we 
always hab," he contradicts smilingly. 

"Yes, but that's just the beauty about miracles 
— they happen all the time." 

T. J. R. digs one responsive toe into the floor 
as he answers the previous comment. "I dunno 
huccome. " That is one thing I have noticed 
about colored conversation — there is no sense of 
tyrannic logic about it, no cumbering necessity for 
coherence, no irksome continuity. 

"What have you got for my breakfast?" I 
inquire as my nose quivers anticipatorily at the 
whiffs from the covered dishes. 

He removes the top from a bowl disclosing straw- 
berries obviously picked within the hour. "Dese is 
fum de ever-bearing vines mistis done had sot out f o' 
you to hab strawberries all summer," he announces. 



(Eating on tfje jPorcfj 241 

"Such strawberries!" I exclaim. "And such 
cream to go with them!" 

I roll rapturous tongue as I eat, thinking of the 
kind hands that had set out the berry plants, 
milked the cow, skimmed the cream, and brought 
the tray to me. (Different hands in each case, you 
understand, but receiving a corporate gratitude.) 
I think with pleasure of the good old cow that gave 
the milk. I don't enjoy thinking of the good old 
cows that furnish milk to me in the city. Milk 
there is an impersonal product, not sentimental- 
ized in any way, and the least one thinks about it 
the more comfortable one is. 

T. J. R. converses on topics of varied interest 
the while I eat, perching himself on a stool at my 
bedside, so that he can conveniently hand me 
things. 

"And a nice plump egg on a piece of toast!" I 
mouth joyously. 

"Aun' Mandy say tell you dat a Shanghai egg 
she fin' dis mawnin'. " 

"It surely is fresh, then." 

"'Tain' so of needcessity. Ain' yoheered 'bout 
de Shanghai chicken?" T. J. R. giggles. 

"No, what is it?" 

He rocks himself back and forth on his stool, as 
16 



242 jFrom a ^outijern ^orcl^ 

he chants a "ballet" concerning the fowl in ques- 
tion. 

** Shanghai chicken an' he grow so tall, 
Hog day, hoo day! 
Takes dat egg a month to fall, 
Hoo day, hoo day! 

or Satan is mad an' I am glad, 

Hoo day, hoo day! 
He lost dat soul he thought he had, 

Hoo day, hoo day ! 

When I went down in de valley for prayer, 

Hoo day, hoo day! 
When I got dere, Mr. Satan was dere, 

Hoo day, hoo day ! 

What you reckon Mr. Satan say? 

Hoo day, hoo day ! 
'You're too young to moan an' pray,' 
Hoo day, hoo day ! 

Mr. Shanghai chicken, you look so keen, 

Hoo day, hoo day ! 
What you reckon Mr. Satan mean.? 

Hoo day, hoo day!" 

"You like a perched egg, dean* you?" Randy 
rolls his eyes and his r's at the same time. He 
usually omits his r's, but he puts one in here to 
make up. 



Catins on tfte Potcfj 243 

''Yes, I do, " I assert. 

The next disclosure is batter-bread, piping hot, 
in its httle baking-dish. I put butter on shame- 
lessly and eat it with the crisp frizzled bacon and 
the coffee from the tiny blue pot. As I munch, I 
ask my servitor to give me more colored songs, 
preferably about food. There are many such, for 
the darkey is fond of writing about what really 
interests him. 

"I done know some 'bouten de possum," he 
concedes, and sings the following : 

"My little dog begin to bark, 

Good-bye, good-bye! 
Then I went afoot to see. 
He had a possum up de tree, 

Good-bye, Liza Jane ! 

First parboil an' bake him brown. 

Good-bye, good-bye! 
An' wid taters lay him roun', 

Good-bye, Liza Jane ! 

Possum meat am very sweet. 

Good-bye, good-bye! 
Possum meat am good to eat. 

Good-bye, Liza Jane ! 

Lay dem taters in de pan, 
Good-bye, good-bye! 



244 Jfrom a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

Bestes eatin' in de Ian', 
Good-bye, Liza Jane! 

Possum up a 'simmon tree, 

Good-bye, good-bye, 
Possum up a 'simmon tree, 

Good-bye, Liza Jane ! 

I'se gwine away to lef you, 

Good-bye, good-bye! 
I'se gwine away to lef* you, 

Good-bye, Liza Jane!" 

Thomas Jefferson Randolph is a true dramatic 
singer, for he interprets his lays with appropriate 
gestures and expressions. 

*'Give me another, " I urge, in applause, whereat 
he chants a second song about Bre'r Possum. 

"Jakey went a-huntin' 

One moonshiny night. 
Jakey treed a possum 

'Way up out en sight. 
Jakey got his axe 

An' he begin to chop. 
He said, 'Look out, little chillims, 

Somepin's gwine to drop ! * 

Bile dat possum, 

Bile dat possum down. 
Bile dat possum, 

Bake him till he's brown. 



Cating on tfjc ^orcfj 245 

Won't we hab a good ol' time 
When dat possum hits de groun* ? 

Ef you wants to cook dat possum, 

I'll tell you how to do. 
Put him in a fryin' pan, 

Wid sweet taters, too. 
Put in lots ob gravy, 

Right next to de crust. 
Den we'll eat dat possum. 

We'll eat him 'twell we bust! 

Bile dat possum. 

Bile dat possum down. 
Bile dat possum. 

Bake him 'twell he's brown. 
Won't we hab a good ol' time 

When dat possum hits de groun' ?" 

Much of the negro folk-song consists of recitals 
of the pleasures of the palate, because colored 
people versify about subjects of genuine interest, 
instead of what they think would genteelly concern 
them. One reason for so many sorry verses among 
white people is the custom of attempting to poetize 
on indifferent subjects, void of personal interest. 
If poets would be sincere with themselves and 
their world, and would sing of matters that really 
thrill them, like cold shower-baths, for instance, 
and hot broiled steak, and waffles, and sleeping on 



246 Jfrom a ^outfjern 3^oxt\) 

the porch, and the first green corn of the season, 
instead of sonneteering over eyebrows and parting 
sighs, literature would have much more flavor. 
The poets have set a false standard of values upon 
details of life, to which the world tamely submits. 
What a revival of popular interest in poetry there 
would be if writers of verse concerned themselves 
with emotions actually dominant, instead of those 
conventionally supposititious ! 

Now, Thomas Jefferson Randolph, being chiefly 
interested in eating, sings of food and the joys of 
consumption. I, being of sympathetic palate, 
enjoy his ditties and call for a third helping. 

"Wake, oh, mist is, peas in de pot, 
Hoe-cake bakin' ! 
Master had a dwellin* house 

Sixteen stories high. 
An' ebery room in dat house 
Was filled wid pumpkin pie. 

Ef I had a scoldin' wife, 

Ez sure as you are bawn, 
I'd take her down to New Orleans 

An' trade her off for cawn ! 
Wake, oh, mistis, peas in de pot. 

Hoe-cake bakin' !" 

Presently, having eaten enough to satisfy even 
a Jeffersonian appetite, I rise and move down- 



Cating on tfje ^orcfj 247 



stairs to find out what more active members 
of the household are engaged in doing. I settle 
myself on the front porch in my couch, and swing 
lazily to and fro. After a while Aunt Mandy comes 
out with a plate of gingersnaps, or a "sampler" 
of the cake she is baking, or perhaps the crusty end 
of a loaf of new-made bread, spread thickly with 
yellow butter, for my delectation. 

Later in the morning the family will probably 
be called together on the back porch to eat water- 
melon, Mose having sneaked a big rattlesnake 
melon in the "refrizerator" the night before, and 
summoning us for a surprise. You who have 
eaten watermelon only in seemly slices at the din- 
ner-table know nothing of its lusciousness. It 
should be eaten by> one leaning over the rail of the 
porch, or better still in a large bathtub. You bury 
your face in it if you wish, and you eat raptur- 
ously of the red heart. Somehow you never get 
any of the heart of watermelon in restaurants — 
perhaps that is reserved for the waiters or other 
millionaires. 

Mose and T. J. R. and Tishie and Aunt Mandy 
are also eating watermelon, on the kitchen porch. 
As Mose walks off, wiping his hands and his red, 
turnover lips, on his sleeve, he sings, 



248 jFrom a ^outftern ^orcf) 

"De ham-bome am sweet, 
De possum am good, 

An' de chicken meat am berry, berry fine. 
But gimme, oh, gimme. 
Oh, how I wish you'd gimme 
Dat water-milyon smilin' on de vine!" 

Dinner in Virginia comes in the middle of the 
day. Unless there's formal company here, dinner 
is served on the side porch, so that we may see the 
road and keep up with the passing show the while 
we eat, a costless and perpetually changing 
cabaret. Tish gives us entertaining information 
concerning the travelers, as well as of the sources of 
the food we're partaking of. There may be Bruns- 
wick stew, for example. I'm satisfied the gods on 
high Olympus had Brunswick stew on festival oc- 
casions, though it couldn't have been half so good 
as this prepared by Aunt Mandy, or any other 
elderly colored cook in Virginia. Tishie will tell 
us that Aunt Mandy made the stew because Mose 
has gone hunting the day before and shot some 
squirrels. Mose isn't allowed to touch a squirrel 
on this place, but who could prevent his going into 
the far woods ? 

There'll be various vegetables in the stew, 
corn, okra, and so forth. I cannot give you the 



bating on tfie ^orcft 249 

recipe for it, since in Virginia cooking is done by 
inspiration, rather than by rule in books, and 
colored women are convinced that measuring would 
spoil any concoction. Aunt Mandy will tell me 
that she takes a few eggs, some milk, about so 
much butter, as much sugar as she thinks right, 
and flour and flavoring to taste, and makes a cake. 
She couldn't follow a printed recipe, for she doesn't 
know how to read, and so she measures things in 
her head, she tells me. The results are eminently 
satisfactory. 

If there isn't Brunswick stew, there is likely to be 
fried chicken, especially if guests are here. Aunt 
Mandy 's favorite saying is, ''Company's coming. 
I got to kill a fried chicken an' churn." If im- 
portant guests are announced she will say, 'TU 
hab to put de big pot in de little one an' make hash 
outen de dish-rag. " 

Tishie doesn't know that servitors are not ex- 
pected to join in the conversation, for when we 
family are alone, she entertains us with news of the 
barnyard and garden, about the hawk that Mose 
almost shot yesterday, or the weasel that got into 
the chicken house last night and killed some prom- 
ising yellow-legged pullets. She will identify the 
special fowl we may be eating in some such fashion 



250 Jfrom a ^owtfjetn ^orcfi 

as, "Dishere is fum de incrubator hatchin' dat 
was mos'ly spiled by de blastin'," or ''Dishere is 
is one ob de young roosters Mr. Patrick done sont 
you early in de spring. " Or maybe she breaks to 
us some tragedy as, " Dis young fool rooster wid de 
yaller laigs, he done stan' in de middle ob de road 
to crow ober an ottermobile. He ain' gwine crow 
no mo'. Mose seen hit an' brung him to de house, 
an' Aunt Mandy, she popped him into de skillet. " 

We grieve resignedly over the frustrated pride, 
the egocentric energy of young roosters, and yet 
the curtailed crow seems to add a flavor to the dish. 

There are Irish potatoes smothered in cream, 
potatoes unqualified, of course, meaning sweet po- 
tatoes. "Dey is fum de lazy-bed," Tishie in- 
forms us. 

"What is a lazy-bed?" I ask. 

"Wellum, a lazy man's potato bed, or jes' a 
lazy-bed, as we ginerally calls hit, am a bed where 
de potatoes ain' planted but dey jes' grows. You 
git hit started once, an' cover hit with pine tags, 
an' don' disturb hit, an' de taters grow corntinually 
fum year to year. Any time you wants any, you 
kin grub down in dere an' git some young new po- 
tatoes, even in de winter time. Mose, he got a 
lazy-bed back ob de 'lasses cane. " 



Cating on tlje ^otcfj 251 

There's sure to be young corn cooked in some 
delicious way, since Mose plants corn every two 
weeks during the summer, to guarantee a proper 
supply of roasting ears. Of course, we have corn 
bread, because Southerners have always loved it. 
We didn't have to wait for the exigencies of war 
time to learn to eat corn bread. It amused us to 
read those anxious editorials in Northern papers, 
urging the attractions of corn bread. Who has 
eaten it made by a Southern darkey has tasted 
one of life's chief joys. There's egg bread, made 
with egg and buttermilk, baked in a pan, or in 
little sticks so that those who like crust may have 
it in abundance. Aunt Mandy also makes corn 
pone, or * ' dodger, ' ' with meal and hot water and 
salt, shaping it into little cakes. Bread of the 
North was never like it ! 

Rice is another thing that Northern editors dis- 
covered for the purpose of saving wheat. But 
only a Southerner knows how to cook it with each 
grain separate, since the South has loved it for 
generations. For dessert we may have blackberry 
cobbler, made from berries T. J. R. and I may have 
picked in the woods, or there may be raspberries 
and cream, or any one of a number of delicious 
things Aunt Mandy knows how to make. 



252 :ifrom a ^outjern Jorcft 

There will be an extra place at the table for the 
unexpected guest, who is usually here, for, while 
hospitality is almost obsolete in some sections of 
the country, it is not so in the South. Southern 
hospitality is a delightful thing in many ways, but 
countless crimes are committed in its name. 

After dinner we all move out to the front porch, 
where the men smoke fat cigars, and the women 
exchange confidences concerning methods of can- 
ning. I release my mind on little excursions of its 
own, and am only half aware of conversations that 
blend into each other in my ears, so that I overhear 
snatches of suggestions that the cold-pack method 
is the best way to can stubborn politicians in dry 
weather, and that tomatoes should have four rows 
of purling three days in succession to kill the 
germs. 

Presently I leave the enthusiasts talking, and go 
up to my sleeping-porch for a nap, but still into my 
ears pours the flood of conversation, lulling me into 
slumber. 

I am awakened by the uphill snort of an auto, 
which means that afternoon callers are arriving. 
It is a beautiful blonde afternoon,, with blue eyes 
and sunshine hair, and so everybody feels like 
getting out into the country to behold it. And, of 



Cating on tfte ^otcfj 253 

course, the fresh air has given everyone an ap- 
petite, so Tish trundles out the tea wagon, and we 
eat once more. Those who do not care for hot tea 
may have tea in glasses with mint and crushed ice. 
What conceivable sound is more musical than the 
tinkle of ice in the glasses on a warm afternoon? 
And what colors more attractive than the amber 
and soft green together? Or perhaps there's 
grape juice, a beverage that we've made ourselves 
from grapes that T. J. R. and I have gathered 
from the arbor, so that all manner of associations 
cluster round it. There are little cakes, and 
divers sandwiches that Aunt Mandy's unlettered 
hands know how to fashion cunningly. I do think 
that if Aunt Mandy learned to read, her bread 
wouldn't be half so light as it is ! 

The Doctor usually drops in from visiting a 
country patient — since he is most devoted to his 
illnesses in this section of the coimtry. He expertly 
passes the tea things, with jocular conversation. 
The Professor, on the other hand, sits a little 
apart from the crowd and talks to me, while he 
looks at Lucia. Lucia, perverse creature, talks 
brightly to the Doctor, with only an occasional, 
quickly withdrawn glance at our part of the 
porch. 



254 Jfrom a ^outfjern ^orcJj 

*'Why does she dislike me so?" he murmurs 
wistfully. 

*' Because she doesn't!'* I answer promptly. 
**If she hated you, the chances are she'd be 
beautifully courteous to you. She's afraid of 
you, and I think she doesn't wish to fall in 
love perhaps. Perhaps she feels herself teeter- 
ing on the edge of the precipice and she's leaning 
backward to catch herself, to keep her balance. 
Possibly I've done you an injustice by advocating 
your cause. I think I'll try abusing you, and see 
how that works. " 

"What can I do?" his blue eyes ask me. 

"Just wait, " I caution him between bites of sand- 
wich. ' ' But don't wait — too long ! ' ' 

We sit in silence for a moment, then turn to 
listen to the mocking bird perched on a sway- 
ing rose vine, singing a golden song to his 
mate. 

"How I envy him his readiness of speech!" the 
Professor grumbles. "He's quite a clever phrase- 
maker, isn't he?" 

"Yes, but he's such a plagiarist," I argue. 
** Those creatures to whom rhapsodies come so 
easily are usually speaking more from imitation 
than emotion. All the same, it wouldn't hurt you 



€atmg on tfje ^orcfj 255 

to practice a little song against the time 3^ou'll feel 
impelled to sing. '* 

Supper is served on the side-porch, except on 
Simday night when the colored folk are gone, when 
we have cold supper from the tea wagon anywhere 
we happen to be. At ordinary suppers there are 
all sorts of delicious things, waffles, with honey, 
or Sally Lunn, light as down. One young fellow 
who was here the other night, tasting it for the 
first time, laughed and on being pressed for an 
answer, said, **You know my father used to live 
in Virginia when he was young, and I've heard him 
say so often how he loved Salty Lunn, but I thought 
she was an old sweetheart of his. To think it's 
just a bread!" 

There may be broiled chicken, or a young rabbit 
that Mose has caught trespassing in the garden. 
There'll be sweet potatoes cooked in some appetiz- 
ing way. I think sweet potatoes give me more 
constant pleasure than any other form of food, and 
a world without them would be less joyous for me 
than it is. But I cannot enumerate the good 
things that Aunt Mandy might give us for supper, 
for she is versatile, and has country resources to 
draw upon. Whatever we have, anyhow, taste 



256 Jfrom a ^outjjern $orcf) 

better for being eaten in the open, with the pine 
trees talking to us, and the sleepy sounds of chick- 
ens going to bed, and the effervescent yelps of 
puppies sounding in our ears. 

I love James Whit comb Riley's little poem, 
When We Et out on the Porch. Eating is a social 
rite made more enjoyable by being shared with 
Nature herself. It is Nature who gives us what we 
eat, and to dine or sup in her benignant presence 
makes us doubly blessed. When you break 
bread with a friend, or a chance comer who per- 
haps needs your help, you share more than food 
with him, if you eat on the porch. You share 
with him the earth and the beauty thereof, the 
sky, and what lies beyond it. When you bow 
3^our head to render thanks to Him who gave 
the food, you seem more in His presence in the 
open than when shut in secret rooms. There 
is an out-of-door grace that niggard walls never 
know. 

After I have gone to bed, Lucia slips in to bring 
me a box of candy that the Doctor has brought me, 
knowing I love to eat in bed. She sits down on 
the little stool beside the bed, with hands folded 
restlessly in her lap. 



Catmg on tfje J^orcfi 257 

"I think Fm going to marry the Doctor," she 
says in a low voice, after a while. 

** You are not ! " I cry, sitting bolt upright, full of 
rage and caramel. "You shan't marry the man 
that killed m}^ pet frog — my poor, affectionate little 
frog that never did anybody any harm ! Besides — 
he wouldn't make you happy!" 

''What is happiness?" she answers listlessly. 
^'Anyhow, he didn't intend to hurt Nip." 

"Don't tell me!" I contend with heat. "Aren't 
Doctors always experimenting with frogs in a per- 
fectly cold-blooded fashion? And he never has 
seemed repentant enough — ^he thinks it a joke! 
Happiness my love, is dependent on the nature of 
your husband's sense of humor!" 

' * You'd like me to marry into a Boston cemetery, 
I suppose!" she says sarcastically. 

"Better that than a Virginia laboratory!" I 
retort, crunching the Doctor's chocolates with un- 
grateful reHsh. "Hasn't that tombstone read you 
an inscription yet?" 

"Not a word!" 

"Well, I'll admit that's rather slow, even for 
Boston. But then he hasn't had as much practice 
in proposing as that light-tongued Doctor. But 
just remember that he's from Boston. " 

IT 



258 Jfrom a ^outfjetn ^orcft 

"I certainly shall!" she says distinctly, as she 
turns to go. "I wouldn't eat too much of that 
candy if I were you, especially when you entertain 
such emotions of rage toward the giver. Anger is 
bad for the digestion, you know." 

"You talk like a doctor's wife already!" I cry. 
"Go ! I dislike you. You haven't told the Doctor 
you're thinking of marrying him, have you?'* I 
hurl after her. 

*'No, he just keeps on telling me. " 

*'0h, that's all right then, " I murmur to the box 
of candy, and go to sleep to dream of caramels in 
the shape of tombstones with fervid inscriptions. 



X 



SLEEPING OUT 



Sleeping on a country porch is so delightful an 
experience that one really should stay awake all 
night to get the full pleasure of it. One realizes 
the world and feels the sensuous magic of it more 
when one is half asleep than when one is fully 
awake. Perhaps then the intellect, the cold 
mechanism of logic, is disregarded, and one merely 
feels, but feels in a subliminated way. The ave- 
nues of the senses are wide open, and through the 
sight, the sound, the smell, the touch, one is made 
aware of the enchanted world without. Sleep is 
not a tyrant to be resisted, as by a child afraid of 
missing something if he goes to bed, or a wraith to 
be hopelessly pursued, as by an insomniac, but 
a lovely being, lingering near, but not intrusive. 
On a country porch one does not feel the bitterness 
of waking up as in the inside of a house, especially 
in the city, where one feels that one has not slept 
enough, yet must arise to work. Sleep in the open 

259 



26o jFrom a ^outfiern JPorcf) 

is much more restorative, so that one needs less 
of it and hence can give a portion of the night to 
pure enjoyment of his sensations. 

The porch on which I sleep is on the side of 
the house, so that I am near both the front and the 
back, can hear the sounds from the farmyard, from 
the roadway, and from the lake as well. I love to 
lie dreamily and analyze the sounds I hear. The 
country is supposed to be quiet in comparison with 
the city, but it is full of half -distinguishable noises, 
all restful to the nerves. The bullfrogs in the lake 
give their booming croaks at intervals through the 
night, deep bassos that no human throat can repro- 
duce; the crickets sleepily chirp as if on watch, and 
from some tree near by sounds the eerie tremulo of 
the screech-owl, with its musical, premonitory note 
of woe. The mocking bird, waked by the weight 
of emotion its little breast can no longer bear, 
seeks relief in expression, in a dream-haunted 
song. 

Hark ! through the dark 

And moonless magic of the night, 

That yet with faint, suffused light is bright, 

From where on high sphereth the star-sown sky, 

Is tremulous heard 

The mocking bird! 



^leejpins 0ut 261 



Hear! through the clear 

Hushed stillness of the lonely hour, 

With what immortal power down shower 

Such lyric rhapsodies ! such ecstasies 

Of golden joy 

His notes employ! 

Lo! sad and slow 

Heart-broken strains of woe are wrung 

As when by tremulous tongue of age are sung 

The elegies of well-beloved youth, the ruth 

Of sorrow's load. 

Grief's palinode! 

Love, joyous love, 

Is now his passion-thrilled theme. 

The wakeful wonder of his dream supreme. 

He darkling gropes to dim, delirious hopes. 

And trembling pleads 

All love's sweet needs. 

How mayest thou 

The cycle of all human feeling voice, 

Grieve with the bereaven, rejoice with dulcet joys? 

Is thy song, then, vicarious, for us? 

Sing undeterred, 

Oh, poet bird! 

From far across the fields comes the cry of a 
pack of hounds as they start on a fox hunt, their 
deep- voiced ululations rising and falling in melan- 



262 Jfrom a ^outijern ^orcf) 

choly intonations, to be answered by the voices of 
the other hounds near by. The cry of a hound is 
a pathetic, wild music unHke anything else. It 
sounds as if wrung from the heart of a captive 
creature, but the fox says nothing, curiously 
enough ! 

I can hear a troop of negroes passing along the 
road, singing as they go home from some colored 
gathering, their rich, mournful voices making 
haunting echoes in the heart. The negro is so 
religious in a pagan way that he puts his whole 
heart into crude folk-songs and hymns in a manner 
to shake the soul of any hearer. I forget the child- 
like absurdities of the language, and feel only, 
"This is real music and real religion!" One who 
has never heard a band of old-fashioned negroes 
singing such hymns as "Roll, Jordan, Roll," or 
"Pharaoh's Army" has missed the sweetest thrill 
that harmony can give. The chant floats up to me, 

"Oh, Mary, don't you weep no more. 
Don't you moan! 

Pharaoh's army got drownded in de Red Sea — 
Oh, Mary, don't you weep, don't you moan! 

Some ob dese mawnin's bright an' fair, 
I'll take my wings an' cleave de air; 



Sleeping 0\xt 263 



Pharaoh's army got drownded in de Red Sea, 
Oh, Mary, don't you weep, don't you moan! 

When I get to Hebben, I'm gwine to put on my shoes, 
I'm gwine roun' Glory an' tell all de news; 
Pharaoh's army got drownded in de Red Sea, 
Oh, Mary, don't you weep, don't you moan! 

When I get to Hebben I'm gwine to sing an' shout; 
Dey's no one dere to turn me out; 
Pharaoh's army got drownded in de Red Sea — 
Oh, Mary, don't you weep, don't you moan!" 

Sometimes, we are wakened in the middle of the 
night to hear guitars, and unformed young voices 
singing about love and other such inconsequential 
matters, at which the young girls in the house 
twitter excitedly, but I go off again into dreams. 
I love to dream at such a time, for the dreams woven 
about a serenade are lovelier than the serenade 
itself. 

The early morning sounds are as captivating as 
those of the night, for a rose- vine taps at my screen 
to summon me for a new day, and a fat rosebud 
peers in to see if I am awake or only pretending. 
The birds are up early, and have all manner of 
matutinal confidences to exchange. Presently I 
can hear the chickens stir, and a young rooster, 
swelling with importance, announces the dawn. 



264 Jfrom a ^otitfjern ^orcjj 

whereat the hens cackle for their breakfast. The 
ducks, released from overnight confinement, start 
down the hill in enfilade, to spend the day on the 
lake, quacking as they go. Quack . . . quack 
. . . quack. The guinea's pot-rack, pot-rack ^ 
is answered by the turkey's gobble — gobble as the 
fowls scatter for the day. Quack . . . quack 
. . . pot-rack . . . pot-rack . . . gobble — gob- 
ble — . Aunt Mandy is to be heard making break- 
fast stirrings, singing a few stanzes of one of her 
endless songs : 

"Angel come down an' trouble de waters, 
Angel come down an' trouble de waters, 
Angel come down an' trouble de waters, 
It's de day ob Jubilee ! 

Rise, shine an* gib God de glory, 
Rise, shine an' gib God de glory, 
Rise, shine an' gib God de glory, 
It's de day ob Jubilee!" 

Mose is chopping wood, his rhythmic strokes ac- 
companied by a song with a monotonous refrain. 

"I don't like to work, but I needs de arns, 
I don't like to work but I needs de arns, 
I don't like to work, but I needs de arns." 



Sleeping 0nt 265 



The scents of the night and of the very early 
morning are particularly pleasant, for the dew 
brings out a sweetness unknown by day, I think, 
and all the garden odors float up to me, mingled 
with the scent of clover blossoms, and the perfume 
of wet pine boughs. My dreams are perfumed, as 
never in the city. Sometimes I lie awake and try 
to single out the various scents, seeking to distin- 
guish the individual sweetness of each thing, then 
again enjoying the composite bouquet. The scent 
of the star- jasmine comes stealing up from the vine 
clinging to the trellis on the wall, and the odor of 
the wild honeysuckle is unmistakable, while the 
sweet basil in the flower-beds below sends up a 
spicy richness. When there is rain, the odors are 
more clearly distinguishable than at other times. 

I love the feel of the cool wind on my cheeks and 
the luxury of it in my lungs. My lungs, that in 
winter are subwayward, expand on the porch in a 
happy fullness of life. I love the touch of the little 
ambiguous breezes that steal about my pillow, and 
the occasional spray of rain that comes in upon me 
through the screen. I lie with half -shut eyes to 
watch the sleazy little rain falling, and see the big 
drops roll down from the eaves. Rain in the coun- 
try is far more companionable a thing than it is 



266 Jfrom a ^outfjern ^orcFi 

in the city. In town, one wishes to come in out of 
the rain, but in the country, one feels the impulse 
to get out into it. 

I love the pictures that the night brings to my 
porch pillow, the exhibit hung on the line outside 
for me to see. The trees are spr angled against the 
sky, like quaint Japanese prints, the poplars with 
their great pointing pencils lifted upward, the 
oaks with heavy draperies about them, the pines 
with swaying tops, the younger trees, more emo- 
tional with rocking arms. Against the sky is the 
soft glow in the clouds, above where the city's 
lights are shining through the distance and the 
dark. The pictures change night by night, ac- 
cording to the notion of the moon. Sometimes 
there's a flame-colored moon that floats up the 
sky over the tops of the trees, like a child's bright 
balloon that has escaped and gone to seek the stars. 
Sometimes there's a moon all pale, shedding a 
cool radiance on the lake, touching the reeds by 
the water's edge to an unearthly beauty. Some- 
times the moon is a cryptic stone, covered with 
magic runes, and sometimes it is a curved spear. 
There are nights when there's no moon at all, 
when the heavens are dark, and others when the 
tinsel stars spangle the black sky, as if a widow 



Sleeping 0nt 267 



should strew little gold flowers all over her crepe 
veil. 

The physical and mental sensations of dropping 
off to sleep on a porch in the country are altogether 
pleasant. I look with sleepy gaze to the lake 
where I see a little boat stealing across the silver 
bands of moonhght. Presently I feel myself in 
that little boat, swaying, swaying, drifting, drifting. 
The lake expands insensibly, and I am on the ocean 
in a wave-rocked boat of dreams. I float forever 
in a wide and quiet sea, while seons roll and roll 
past me. My boat is submerged, and I sink to 
soundless depths, to blue miracles of water, down, 
down, down — so that I am drowned in seas of sleep, 
a delicious drowning, in which all life's happinesses 
sweep before me. Drowned . . . deliciously. 

I am in a cosmic cradle, crooned over by swaying 
winds. In that mystic chant I sense the meaning 
of all earth's riddles, am steeped in all mortal 
sweetnesses, hear all the world's harmonies upgath- 
ered into one, and meant for me alone. I am 
swayed to and fro on the tops of gentle trees, trees 
I have always loved from a distance and never been 
quite able to reach before, friendly trees that take 
me into their confidence and make me wise of se- 
crets never known before. How sage are trees, and 



268 jfrom a ^otitfjern ^orcfj 



how benignant ! How soft their rocking arms, how 
safe their mighty clasp ! 

I am borne languorously on those white clouds 
along the Milky Way, sweeping with Hght majesty 
over sleeping cities that have no knowledge of my 
passing, past spires of country churches, and rivers 
flowing to the sea, and motintains that forever 
stand in silence and in thought. How wonderful is 
silence and how supreme is thought — if only man 
could know ! 

I lie on the grass strewn with perfumed clover 
and listen to the grass blades whispering as they 
grow. I rise upward on the mist that floats above 
the lake, and slide down star beams. I know all 
things, and feel all things, and am at one with all, 
as I sleep . . . sleep . . . sleep. 

Porch dreams are delectable experiences, very 
different from the drugged unconsciousness of in- 
door sleep, or the morbid nightmares that infest 
the walls of houses. I am always happy in my 
porch dreams, am always clutching some longed- 
for joy, or realizing some erstwhile denied ambition, 
or discovering in myself new powers that I have not 
hitherto been aware of. I have new sensations, 
such as riding in an aeroplane and racing with an 
eagle through the blue, blue sky or skiing, skiing 



Sleeping (Bnt 269 



gaily down some unresisting slope of snow like 
nonchalant lightning, or playing a fugue on a pipe 
organ, or singing in a golden voice. That is one 
of my favorite dreams ! Another is fancying that 
I wake up to find that my eyes are brown, as all my 
life I've wished they were. 

Then again I have dreams that are purely enter- 
taining, not realizing any heart's desire, but merely 
pastime visions, which are sometimes clearly trace- 
able to my late reading in bed. For instance, I 
had a curious dream not long ago, after reading in 
the dictionary just before I went to sleep — for 
there's no book that gives me more pleasure than 
the dictionary, despite its frequent change of sub- 
ject. I love to study words and their whimsical 
ways, since they are such living things and so 
sensitive. They have such a strict code as to their 
respective duties and resent being made to serve 
in the place of others as strongly as did the ser- 
vants of the Spanish king who was allowed to die 
of chill (or was it over heat?) because no one of 
the roomful of courtiers about him would poke the 
fire in the temporary absence of the one person 
whose duty it was to look after it. 

I dreamed that I was at a word-party given by 
several famous lexicographers, to which all the 



270 Jfrom a ^outfjern $orcf) 

words were bidden. Anglo-Saxon words were 
there in their homespun garments, while the 
Norman French terms were haughty in their silks 
and satins, and the modern slang jostled them 
rudely aside, clad in gay sports clothes. Each word 
was dressed in the costume of its native coun- 
try, so the scene was varied and lively. Archaic 
words, ancient, aged crones leaning on sticks, 
hobbled about, while vulgar new words elbowed 
their way into the society of their betters. There 
were even the dead words there, shrouded and 
coffined, but still insisting on being kept in the 
dictionary. 

Some carried musical instruments that gave 
pleasing sounds, while others had contrivances 
that made harsh noises; some moved trippingly 
on the tongue, while others stalked haughtily, and 
others awkwardly stumbled. There were words 
from the same family gathered together in groups, 
while the ancientest grandsire words, mere San- 
skrit roots, kept off to themselves, as if astonished 
and dismayed to see what they were responsible 
for. 

I saw a few words that hung shamefacedly in the 
corner and, "Who are they?" I asked Sir James 
Murray, who was talking with Noah Webster. 



Sleeping 0nt 271 



"They are words that have no right to exist- 
ence," he explained, ''formed from a union of 
words that do not belong together. " 

**Poor things!" I cried in pity. 

*' Yes, but we must preserve the standards of the 
language." 

While I looked at them, those words faded away, 
the adjectives lost their bright colorful character, 
the verbs became less virile, and all of the bril- 
liant company melted into printer's ink before my 
very eyes, my eyes that I rubbed incredulously. 

Another porch dream I had recently was discon- 
certing, but possessing nothing of the morbidity 
of house dreams. I dreamed that I dreamed, and 
knew that my dreams had a curious, compelling, 
prophetic power over my actions. What I dreamed 
I was, I immediately became on waking, and like- 
wise what I fancied in my sleep that I did, I was 
compelled to do as soon as I woke up. I visioned 
myself, for instance, as clad in cap and gown and 
hood, marching in commencement procession at 
my university, only to discover, just as I was step- 
ping on the platform reserved for members of the 
faculty, that I was barefooted. That universal 
dream ordinarily would evoke only a laugh, and a 
waking sense of relief that it was not true. Not so 



272 Jfrom a ^outfjern ^orcjj 

in this case ! As soon as I waked from my dream 
within my dream, I was forced by strange require- 
ment to go through the actual experience, to march 
across the platform, my bare toes wiggling in an- 
guish under the cold, disapproving stare of the 
president. 

And not only did my own dreams control my 
waking actions, but my dreams of others governed 
them and vice versa. If I dreamed, for example, 
that I met Lord Dunsany, clad in tiger skins, and 
playing pipes of Pan, walking down Fifth Avenue, 
and that I trotted along beside him, telling how 
much I liked his wonder tales, I must see the per- 
formance through, no matter how Lord Dunsany 
might protest. And similarly, other people's 
dreams of me caused me to act quite out of char- 
acter. Altogether, life held a variableness and un- 
certainty that I found entertaining but alarming, 
and I was glad on the whole to wake from my double 
dream to find that I was captain of my fate. The 
only thing I regretted, however, was that during 
that magic interval I didn't have the forethought 
to dream some useful dreams concerning editors, 
and other pleasant dispensers of life's bonuses. 

The nightmares that infest house sleep usually 
bring one back to consciousness with a start, with 



Sleeping 0nt 273 



a dreadful sense of horror past or to come, and at 
least partially present, but porch dreams leave a 
lingering sense of pleasure. And one slides so 
gently back into slumber that one dream melts 
into another. 

I have been interested to test my goings to sleep 
and my wakings up, to find which of my senses 
leaves me first, which lingers with me longest. 
Of course, when I am just dropping out of conscious- 
ness, I have no pencil in hand to take notes, and the 
concepts I form are likely to be blurred before I 
get round to recording them, but a few things I 
have observed. I notice that I first lose the sense 
of sight, that is, my eyes close first, and I am too 
drowsy to see anything distinctly, even when I am 
conscious of scents and sounds and the feel of the 
wind on my face. That may, of course, be 
due to the fact that my eyes have curtains that 
automatically adjust themselves, blinds that draw 
themselves, while the ears have no such mechanism 
but must remain open to sensations till the brain 
itself goes to sleep. If I doze off to sleep, for in- 
stance, with a chocolate drop in my mouth (oh, 
I know it's a reprehensible habit and designed to 
enrich the dentist, but I am as I am!), I lose the 
sense of taste soon after my eyelids close. But I 

18 



274 jFrom a ^outfjern J^orcfj 

can still smell the honeysuckle or the clover after 
I have forgotten how the chocolate tastes, though 
not so long as I can feel the soft wind flutter my 
hair and brush my cheek. Through the passing of 
all these sensations I can still distinguish sounds, 
still hear the cricket chirping, still hear the occa- 
sional whimper of a hound in the kennel, still hear 
the boom of the bullfrog in the lake. When I stop 
hearing that frog and that dog, I know I'm gone 
for the night ! 

I wake up in the inverse order, being able to hea-^ 
before I distinguish scent or taste or touch. The 
rattle of dishes comes to me from the dining-room 
before the scent of breakfast coffee, and I feel the 
sunbeam on my cheek before I open my eyes to 
see anything. I wonder which of the senses is 
the first to leave a dying person — which the last! 
Which sense will be the first to wake to a fairer 
day? Or perhaps then our senses will not be 
controlled by the brain, but by the heart, and 
all respond at once. I wonder! 

The porch, the hill, the lake are drenched in 
moonlight, the scent of roses is on the air, and night 
has laid a finger of silence on her lip, the while I 
sleep. I open dreamy eyes just wide enough to see 



Sleeping (But 275 



a little boat drifting in the enchanted moonlight, 
and to hear voices singing, the sound borne across 
the water. 

I fall asleep again, and when I stir once more, it 
is to hear voices on the porch below, on the corner 
next my sleeping porch, a murmurous conversation 
that is yet so distinct that I can know what is being 
said. But when one is not fully awake, one's con- 
science is not in first-rate working order, is the last 
thing to be aroused, in fact, so I do not realize the 
culpability of eavesdropping. Besides, is it not 
my porch, and wasn't I here first? 

I hear a man say, ''Lucia, " and I know it isn't 
the Doctor's bland accents, though it is in a tone 
not at first recognizable. But finally I know that 
it is the Professor who is speaking. But can it be 
his reserved voice that is full of such hasteful pas- 
sion, such ardent feeling? 

Lucia I I love you ! I love you ! ' ' 
But I don't wish you to love me ! ' ' she cries out. 
*'I tell you I'm afraid of you!" 

''Oh, Lucia— why?" 

She speaks vehemently. ''Because you are so 
reserved, and cold, and stern! Your gaze seems 
always weighing me and finding me wanting, and 
I'm not used to that. Suppose I married you, and 



276 Jfrom a ^outfjern S^oxtf) 

you looked at me with a cold, hard gaze? You 
say you love me, but I think you don't know what 
love is ! " 

There is a moment's silence. Oh, how I should 
like to go down and shake that girl ! 

At last he speaks, gently, but with a note of bit- 
terness I have never heard in his voice before. *'I 
have had little chance in my life to know what love 
is." 

' * You were never in love before ? ' ' She throws 
the words at him. 

"I'll try to explain to you, but you'll probably 
not understand, since it has all been so different 
from what you have known," he says patient- 
ly. "Your life has been compassed about with 
love, so that you do not know what any other 
could be like. No, I haven't been in love, as 
you call it. Nor have I known other types of 
love." 

"What do you mean?" she interrupts. 

"My mother died when I was a baby, " he says 
quietly. "I never knew her, so that I haven't 
even any memories of her. My father was a very 
busy man, who didn't feel he could spare the time 
to make friends with his boy. He was cold and 
reserved in manner, as you say I am, so doubtless 



Sleeping 0ut 2'/y 



I inherited that misfortune from him. My father 
left me in charge of a half-sister of his, a woman 
much older than he was. I lived with her till I 
went off to boarding-school." 

"What was she like?" the girl questions. 

*'She was a good woman, but not one who 
should have the care of children. She never loved 
me, and I knew it even when I was a baby. 
I used to try to win her heart, but it was no 
use. She didn't like boys. She thought boys 
were born evil, and must be controlled with 
steel, so she was strict and stern with me. I 
never knew anything but inhibition in my life. 
I used to hunger for love, for demonstration of 
affection. I think I must have been like my 
mother in that. " 

He hesitates an instant. 

"Many a time I've cried myself to sleep because 
no one ever kissed me, or said little foolish nothings 
to me, as mothers do. It would have been differ- 
ent, of course, if my mother had lived. But I was 
taught repression, always repression. I must 
never make any noise. If I cried, I was punished. 
If I brought myself forward in any way, I was 
taught my place ! ' ' 

"How dreadful!" Lucia cries. 



278 iftom a ^outfietn J^orcft 

' * Yes, it was pretty hard for a child. You see, 
inhibition of my feelings was forced into a habit 
wdth me. I learned to repress myself utterly. I 
went about with lips tight closed, without making 
any noise, hiding in corners, a little lonely boy! 
Oh, I want a little boy of my own, so that I may 
treat him differently!" 

He checks himself. 

"By the time I was sent off to boarding-school, 
I wasn't fitted for association with other boys more 
normal. They didn't understand me, and thought 
me priggish, when I was bursting with loneliness. 
So my school days weren't much happier than 
those at home had been. " 

'^ After that?" 

"After that came college, which was much the 
same. I did good work, and the profs, praised me, 
but I'd have given all the honors I ever earned for a 
slap on the back from one of the fellows. They 
respected me, but I didn't want respect. I wanted 
comradeship. 

"So that's why I am as I am. You are the only 
person I have ever really loved, and m}?" heart 
cries out for love of you, but I don't know how to 
express it ! And you think me cold! I knew when 
I was a child that Aunt Sarah was being cruel to 



Sleeping 0nt 279 



me, but I couldn't guess the greatness of the wrong 
she was doing me. She has made it impossible for 
you to love me! Lucia!'' 

I hear a Httle sob, and a soft rustle and stir as of 
skirts. I lean on my elbow and look down on the 
porch at right angles to my porch, and see Lucia, 
the haughty, the proud Lucia, draw his head down 
to hers and, with her arms about his neck, give him 
a quick kiss. 

His arms are about her. * * You love me, Lucia ? ' * 
he cries incredulously. 

"I love the little boy you used to be!" she says 
brokenly. * ' That kiss was for him ! " 

"And none for the man?" he pleads. "Do you 
love me, Lucia ? ' ' 

"Yes, yes!" she cries. "I guess I always have, 
but I was afraid of you. " 

"And now?" 

"Now I'll never be afraid of you any more! 
Oh, how I hate myself!" 

"/ — don't hate you, Lucia!'' he murmurs half 
articulately. 

I put my face against the screen and speak quite 
distinctly. "Would you dear young creatures 
kindly move your protestations to the other end of 
the porch?" 



28o jftom a ^outfjern J^orcf) 

"Oh," cries Lucia, in agitation. ''Did we dis- 
turb you ? Were you asleep ? ' ' 

' ' Yes, you disturb me ! " I answer shortly. "I've 
listened as long as my conscience will let me, and 
if you stay here any longer, I'll have to put a pillow 
over my ears. And a pillow is not pleasing on a 
summer night. Ears wake up more easily than 
any other senses, I have learned." 

"We go, sweet Porcher, " laughed the Professor. 
It is really the first time I remember hearing him 
laugh out loud. 

"We have something to tell you in the morning, 
Porcher," says Lucia. 

"No, you haven't!" I contradict her crossly. 
"I knew it long before either of you did. Haven't 
I been telling you of it all summer? " 

"Yes, but to-night " 

"I know about to-night, too. I was asleep, but 
my ears were awake." 

"We don't mind what you heard, Porcher," 
says he. "We'd have told you all about it in the 
morning anyhow. '* 

"Well, go on away now, and let me get some 
sleep. I must begin planning for a wedding, to- 
morrow. I insist that it shall be on the front 
porch." 



XI 



PORCH RAILLERY 

I WAS sitting on the porch last night, steeped in 
dreams. It was twelve o'clock, and the others of 
the household were all asleep, but the white magic 
of the moon had so bewitched me that I could not 
go inside. I sat on the steps, nursing my knees 
and watching the lilies nod in the moonlight, or 
studying the tracery of the pine trees against the 
sky, or wondering at the grace of the Lombardy 
poplars that rose like tall altar candles lifted for 
the stars to light. The gazing-globe was a great 
silver moon dropped down upon a pedestal, reflect- 
ing the clouds it had fallen through. The thou- 
sand night scents were gathered into one dewy 
perfume unimaginably sweet. The little brook 
talked softly to itself astir in its pebbly bed, and 
the birds chirped sleepily now and then as if they 
hated to spend such wonderful hours in slumber. 
I watched the ghostly clouds that went a-t raveling 
across the sky, making no sound, leaving no foot- 

281 



282 Jfrom a ^outjjern ^otc6 

print, with not even the Milky Way to find their 
path back home by. 

Suddenly I heard a rustle in the shrubbery'' 
toward the little path that comes up the hill from 
the lake, accompanied by a curious, clinking sound. 
Presently the bushes were thrust aside and a figure 
stepped into the light as he came toward me. He 
had on a broad hat such as men wear on the 
plains, a flannel shirt open at the throat, corduroy 
trousers, and a belt with a brace of pistols stuck 
into it. 

He took off his hat with a grandiose sweep as he 
saw me. ' ' Good-evening ! ' ' 

' 'Good- evening, " I saluted him, rising. 

"I heard you was from Texas and liked my sort 
of folks, so I thought I'd look you up," he said 
jauntily. 

"Yes, Mr. ?" 

**Dave Billings," he proffered. 

'Tm always glad to see any one from Texas, 
Mr. Billings. Come in and have a seat. You're 
a cowboy, I believe?" 

"Yes'm, you might say so," he conceded, as he 
eased himself into a big chair and dropped his 
huge hat on the floor. "Though I'm not on the 
job right now." 



J^orcfj laaillerp 283 



**Why didn't you come earlier?" I hazarded. 
**It's rather late for a call, isn't it ? " 

**No'm, not for my kind. We don't generally 
go abroad till about midnight, that is, the old- 
fashioned ones don't. Some of the new-style ones 
go out any time o' day they like. It's just as they 
chooses, you see." 

"I don't remember having noticed that tendency 
among Texans, ' ' I murmured. ' ' Sounds more like 
New York to me." 

**I'm not talking about Texas folks now," he 
said, patient with my ignorance. ''I'm speakin' 
o' ghosts." 

*'Do you mean to say youVe a ghost!" 

** Surest thing you know!" he grinned. "I 
heard that you was fond of ghosts, an' since there 
ain't many folks that are, I thought I'd come 
around. To tell the truth, I'm lonesome. " 

"I certainly am glad to see you!" I ejaculated 
cordially. "I've never seen a ghost before. I've 
thought a lot about them, but I've never met one. 
How long have you been one, may I ask?" 

He leaned back comfortably in the big chair, 
stretching out his legs. '"Bout two months. 
Had a little fracas with Old Man Anson 'bout 
some steers, an' the durned ol' cuss shot before I 



284 Jfrom a ^outfjern ^orcft 

could draw my gun. He sure was quick on the 
trigger." 

"That was too bad!" I mourned, then suddenly 
giggled. "I've often grieved with other people 
about other people's deaths, but I never before 
sympathized with a ghost about his own taking off !'* 

' ' 'Tis funny ! ' ' He shook appreciatively. 

"Do you mind telling me what is that curious 
noise I keep hearing ? " I asked. " Is it your skele- 
ton rattling?" 

"No'm, it's my spurs," he responded cour- 
teously, protruding two prodigious feet into the 
moonlight, and exhibiting spurs to his boots. As 
he gave a sudden kick, there was a musical jingle. 

"Got little bells on 'em, " he explained. "When 
I dance they play regular tunes. Foot-bell ringers 
you might call them. ' ' 

"How lovely!" I cried. "But tell me how you 
come to be so far from home — if you still call Texas 
home," I amended quickly. 

"Sure thing!" he said emphatically. "Can't 
show me no better heaven! But I just thought 
I'd shake my hoof a bit and see the world, since I 
never had no chance while I was working on the 
ranch." 

"And you say you've been lonesome?" 



JPotcf) l^ailltvp 285 



'*Bet your life! Folks sure do turn the cold 
shoulder to ghosts. Most folks don't even so much 
as see us, and those that do are skeered enough to 
jump outer their skins. This is the first real 
mouthful of talk I've had with a live one since I 
was killed." 

"You're the liVest dead person I ever heard of!" 
I ejaculated. 

"No'm, plenty like me. There's a herd of 'em 
down by the lake right now, hungering for a little 
human companionship." 

**Why didn't you bring them up? I'd love to 
meet them." 

*'I'll go get 'em now," he said, jointing his long 
limbs as he rose from the chair. "They're really 
sorter expecting to be sent for. They're waiting 
down there till I come back. " 

"By all means bring them." 

He jingled off down the hill, singing a song about 
Texas : 

"Where the prairie dog kneels on the backs of his heels 
And fervently prays for a rain!" 

I hastily shook up sofa pillows, pushed forward 
easy-chairs, and made what preparations I could for 
my guests. 



286 Jfrom a ^outftern ^orcfi 



I heard them coming up the hill. They ap- 
peared one at a time on the steps leading to a 
slightly elevated portion of the lawn, through the 
shrubbery that half conceals the entrance. Each 
one came from the shadow into the bright patch of 
moonlight that played about him like a spectral spot 
light on a ghostly stage. David Belasco himself 
couldn't have arranged it better, and I had a mo- 
mentary pang of regret that he wasn't there to see. 

There were two coal-black ghosts in the lot, one 
enormous giant of a negro in khaki, that made an 
impressive figure in the moonlight, with his black, 
black face, his eyes like hard-boiled eggs, and his 
ashy lips. The other was a mere boy, about seven- 
teen years old, in ragged clothes, and with a couple 
of adventurous toes starting out into the world to 
seek migfortune. 

I greeted the troupe cordially on the steps, though 
a hasty reflection made me decide against offering 
to shake hands with them. Ghosts are delightful, 
of course, but somehow you don't feel like touching 
them, any more than you do the cold under part 
of a frog's body, or a bat's uncanny wing. I pushed 
chairs forward for them, and they were all seated 
presently, the two black shadows casting them- 
selves on the steps. 



l^oxtl) i^ailUrp 287 



Dave Billings hadn't introduced them to me as 
individuals, and they had not offered their names, 
so I smothered my curiosity for the moment and 
determined to find out by degrees who and what 
and why they were. 

**Mind if we smoke?" inquired the cowboy. 

* ' Not at all, ' ' I assured him. * * But is it custom- 
ary ? I didn't know you could. " 

**0h, yes, plenty of sulphur and fire to light 
smokes on our side, you know. And we've got the 
ghosts of the makin's with us. " 

Each man produced his own favorite form of 
smoke, some cigarettes, some men black cigars, 
the negroes cheroots, while one ghost in work- 
stained overalls dug from his pocket a pipe with an 
extremely unpleasant odor. As each man put his 
smoke to his lips, a queer little will-o'-the-wisp 
floated up as lighter. It was an interesting phe- 
nomenon. Presently, as a strong and Hfelike odor 
of tobacco pervaded the porch, wraiths of smoke 
drifted about us all. 

Dave Billings said apologetically, "You must 
excuse this garb of ours, sister, for we ain't 
dressed for a party. But you know we can't carry 
trunks with us, as there ain't no baggage coach in 
the hereafter train. '* 



288 Jfrom a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

**Yes, I understand that you have to keep wear- 
ing what you have on when you are ghosted," I 
said. ** Ghosts always wear what they're last seen 
in in the flesh, though I've always thought that 
must be hard for some. " 

"Yes, ma'am!" — said Dave, emphatically. "I 
alius said I wanted to die with my boots on, so I 
wouldn't be ketched barefooted in the other world." 

The man in overalls removed his unpleasant pipe 
and contributed to the discussion. 

"It's kinder hard to be carried off before you get 
your Saturday night bath an' shave," he com- 
plained. "Look at me now, — I got to wear those 
duds forever and ever. " 

"Your garments certainly are germy, too, my 
good man!" put in a tart voice. 

I looked around to see who had spoken, and found 
it was a woman dressed in a flannelette night- 
gown, a tall, thin woman with hair in curl papers, 
and with curious patches of court plaster all over 
her face. 

"That's all right, lady," chuckled the pipe. 
"I got on my day clothes, anyhow. 'Tain't my 
nightshirt." 

"How vulgar!" she froze. "As if it were my 
fault that I've got to go like this ! " 



Porcf) d^ailUtp 289 



"Tell me about it, " I interposed pacifically. 

"I was scared to death in the middle of the 
night," she explained bitterly. '*A burglar broke 
into my room with a pistol and I died of heart 
failure. I was always a sensitive, high-strung soul ! 
Of course, I didn't know I'd have to go through 
eternity in my night clothes, else I'd have borne up 
long enough to get into my kimona, at least. But 
here, I am, a modest woman. It's unfair " 

"Were you in a hospital?" I asked sympatheti- 
cally. ' ' Had you been hurt in some accident, that 
you had those court-plasters on your face?" 

"These are not wounds ! " she said in refrigerated 
tones. * * These are wrinkle eradicators ! ' ' 

A round-faced, bald-headed ghost here pushed 
his chair forward a bit into the discussion. "I've 
thought a good deal about the rule making us wear 
our death- day clothes forever, " he said. "Strikes 
me it's pretty hard on these chaps you sometimes 
read about, that die of heart failure in the bathtub." 

"How unspeakably vulgar!" cried the wrinkle- 
eradicated one, drawing her flannelette skirts about 
her as if to depart. 

"Oh, I'm sure they'd be allowed a sheet!" I 
suggested. "We read of sheeted ghosts, you see, 
and that must be the explanation. But what I'd 



290 Jfrom a ^ontfjern J^orcf) 

like to know is how those ghost clothes last so 
long. Why don't they ever wear out, or do they? 
Who darns the ghosts' socks?" 

' ' Ghostly tissue has a method of renewing itself, 
both in clothes and in persons," said an aristocratic 
middle-aged shade lounging in the steamer chair, 
with a long, expensive-looking cigar in his mouth. 
**Many latter-day ghosts are very energetic in their 
habits, hence it is supposed that friction even of an 
ethereal kind would in the end wear out garments, 
but such is not the case. " 

"But think of the anguish of a fashionable 
woman compelled to wear an out-of-style dress!" 
I cried. ''And fancy how Queen Elizabeth, for in- 
stance, must suffer, at leaving her thousand gowns 
behind and being restricted to one, that she'd 
wiped up the floor with, at that ! " 

"Yes," he conceded. 

"But why hasn't some enterprising Yankee or 
Hebraic spook contrived to set up a clothing es- 
tablishment on the other side? Mightn't asbestos 
be worn? Or at least, you might have an ex- 
change of old clothes, so you could swap about 
occasionally." 

' ' That might be worked out, ' ' he agreed thought- 
fully. "But there are various difficulties." 



^orcf) i^aillerp 291 



**But, Mistis, " the dark giant on the steps ad- 
dressed the flannelette nightgown. ''You ain't 
as bad off as I am, no ways. The wust thing in 
the world is to die hungry, to die in debt to yo' 
stummick! That's what done happened to me!" 

He sat on the steps, hunched forward in his 
khaki uniform, his black face humbly mournful. 

* ' Why, you poor thing ! " I cried in pity. ' ' Were 
you a prisoner of war?" 

**No, Mistis, I was jes' in de army. Dey done 
sont us to de front-line trenches, an' I stayed dere 
a powerful long time. We didn't hab nothing to 
eat in de trenches but braid an' coffee, 'case dey 
couldn't get no supplies to us, on 'count ob de 
heaby firing. So I was near 'bout starbed, an' 
den I went an' got shell-shuck, " 

"Too bad!" 

** Yes'm, hit sho' wus. Dey done tuck me to de 
horspital when dey git us out, an' one ob dem 
young internals, he says I was anemic, an' he put 
me on a low diet. It sho' was low, too ! He say 
he got to bull' me up befo' I kin eat, an' I say how 
kin I bull' up less'n I eat?" 

''And then?" 

*' Atter awhile dey done put me on a ship to bring 
me home. De doctor he say I kin eat all I wants 



292 Jfrom a ^outjjcrn ^orcfj 

to on de ship, an' so es soon es I got on bo'd, I be- 
gin to plan my fust dinner. Dey say I kin hab 
whatever I wishes, an' so I done order sweet 'taters 
an' spareribs, an' pumpkin pie, an batter bread 
an', an' you knows, Mistis!" 

"Yes, I know. Goon." 

He faltered a moment. 

**I do hope you enjoyed them, " I said. 

"Naw, Mistis, " he quavered. "When dat boat 
begin to trabble, an* dey brung my dinner to me, I 
got seasick. I ain' wan' my dinner. I ain' want 
what I is eat already ! Mistis, I wus seasick clear 
cross de ocean ! Dat shell-shuck shuck me up so, 
dat I couldn't assimulate my food at all. And I 
done pegged out jes' as de gangplank wus let down 
in New Yawk!" 

* * Oh, I'm so sorry ! " I mourned. * ' Is there any- 
thing I could do for you ? 

His black face lightened. ' * I tell you whut you 
kin do, Mistis. I kain' eat yo' sort ob food, but 
dere's a nigger grabeyard yan in de valley. If 
'long 'bout twelve o'clock, you could put a water- 
millyon an* a Smithfiel' hamb bone an', an', you 
knows whut, Mistis, on one ob de grabes dere, I 
think I could crope in an' sorter sperit hit away. " 

"I'll do it!" I agreed heartily. 



$orcfi i^aiUerp 293 



"Thank you kindly, Mistis. I knowed you'd 
help or Ahash out." 

* * What is your name ? " I asked. 

**Ahashuerus, Mistis. But dey ginerally calls 
me Ahash for short, or jes' plain Hash. " 

* ' Where wus you f um ? ' ' inquired the colored boy 
beside him on the steps. 

* ' I wus fum Savannah. Where wus you fum ? " 

**I wus fum Waco, Texas, " he answered. 

**0h, were you?" I cried delightedly. *' That's 
my old home. Tell me about it all ! " 

*'Wellum, I done lib down on Waco Creek, an' 
I wus a shine boy fo' de young men in Baylor 
University." 

**You know some of the shine reels, then?" 
I asked. **I used to hear the college men talk 
about them." 

*'Yes, Mistis." 

*'Sing some of them for us, " I urged. 

He hesitated. ''Wellum, I ain' know eczackly 
whether hit's proper to sing reels atter you is dead. 
Dey putty nigh tu'ned me out en de church 'case 
I sung dem whilst I was libing. Lemme sing you 
some hymn chunes, Mistis!" 

''Well, you can start off with a hymn," I com- 
promised. 



294 Jfrom a ^outJjern J^orcfi 

He drew from some shadowy somewhere the 
wraith of an old banjo, and began picking the 
strings reminiscently. As a weird melody stole 
forth, he began his chanting song : 

"Some preachers, dey is preachin* 
Jes' for a preacher's name, 
But de doctrine dey is preachin* 
Is scand'lous an' a shame. 

Chorus : 

Do you call dat religion? Oh, no! 
Do you call dat religion? Oh, no! 
Do you call dat religion? Oh, no! 
Hit's scan'lous an' a shame. 

An' den we hab some deacons 

Who sit in de rulin' chair. 
Dey duty is to see atter us, 

But dey say dat dey don' care. 



Chorus : 



An' den we hab some brothers 
Dat's giben to hab two wives, 

An' ef you spring dat question, 
You'll see dey dander rise. 



Chorus : 



An' den we hab some sisters 
Who claim dey is very meek. 



^orcfi l^aiUerp 295 



But dey pass by each other's do' 
An' neber stop to speak. 



Chorus : 



An' den we hab some members 
Who are on de road to hell, 

If dey're not wropped up in dis worl*, 
Dey'U say dey're not doin' well. 



Chorus : 



Dey'll play dominoes an* checkers, 
Play cards an' baseball too, 

An' ef you try to correc' dem, 
Dey'll say dey's es good es you. 



Chorus 



If dey hear dat you is sick, 
You'll see dem slip an* dodge; 

Dey won't come nigh to see you, 
Ef you don* belong to dey lodge. 



Chorus : 



When you are well an* wealthy, 
So many are yo' frien*s; 

But when you get onhealthy, 
Dey seldom will come in. 



Chorus : 



De church folks will borrow money 
An* promise sure to pay, 



296 jftom a ^outfjern J^orclj 

But when dey sees you comin*, 
Dey goes some odder way. 

Chorus : 

Now you say you been converted, 
Why don't you stop tellin' lies, 

Stop drinkin' beer an* whisky, 
An' be more civilized?" 

Chorus : 

*'Huh! I don't call dat a real hymn chune," 
protested Ahash. 

*'See if you kin do better, den!" sniffed Jake, of 
Waco Creek. 

"Yes, you give us a song, Ahash, " I suggested. 

Ahash produced a pair of bones from his pocket, 
and gave premonitory clinkings, after which he 
sang: 

"When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin', 
When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin*, 

Den I'll wear de golden slippers, 

An' I'll flop de silver flippers, 
When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin' ! 

Chorus : 

When I swim de golden ribber, when I swim de gold- 
en ribber, 



n 



$orcf| I^aiUerp 297 



When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin', 
Den I hear my master callin*, 
An' I'se gwine to come asquallin*, 

When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin' I 

Chorus 

When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin', 
When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin', 

Den I'll dress in silk an' satin, 

An' I'll talk in Greek an' Latin, 
When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin' I 

Chorus : 

When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin', 
When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin', 

or Satan'll build a fiah. 

An' he'all say to me, * Come nighah, ' 
When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin* ! 

Chorus : 

When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin*. 
When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin*, 

Ef ol' Satan pesters me, 

Dere'll be a jamboree, 
When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin* ! 

Chorus : 

When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin', 
When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin', 

Dere will be no corn nor cotton, 

All my trouble'U be forgotten, 

When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin'! 
Chorus : 



298 jFrom a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin', 
When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin*, 

Dere'll be joy an' lots to eat, 

Dere'll be bread an' lots ob meat, 
When I swim de golden ribber in de mawnin'! " 

Chorus: 

" Dat ain' no hymn proper. I calls dat a hymn- 
reel," grumbled Jake. 

*'What is that?" I asked. 

**A hymn is a church chune. A reel is a comic 
chune. A hymn-reel is a comic church chune. 
Day's bofe diff'rent from ballets. " 

**What are ballets?" I asked interestedly. 

**A ballet is a story chune dat ain't 'ligious. A 
hymn-ballet is a story chune 'bouten Bible folks. " 

**Do you know any hymn ballets?" 

''Yas'm." 

"Can't you sing one for us.? " I requested. 

*'I knows one 'bout Samson an' Delijah, " ad- 
mitted Jake. 

"Let us hear it," I said cordially. 

"Wellum." He hunched himself against the 
post, and t wangled the strings of his ghostly gui- 
tar as he began to sing. 

Delijah was a woman fine an' fair, 
Pleasant-looking, wid coal-black hair. 



J^orcfj i^aillerp 299 



Why he went to Timothy, I cannot tell, 

But the daughter of Timothy pleased him well. 

Samson tol' his father to go an' see 

If he could get that beautiful woman for me. 

Ef I had my way. Oh, Lordy, Lawd! 
Ef I had my way, 
I would tear de buildin' down ! 
Samson's mother replied to him, 
* Why do you want to marry a Pallestine? 
Why don't you marry a woman of your own kith an* 
kin?' 

Let me tell you what Samson done. 

He broke at de lion, an' de lion run. 

It was written dat the lion killed de man wid his jaw. 

Wasn't Samson de first man de lion attackted? 

Samson caught de lion an' got on his back. 

Den Samson hab his han' in de lion's jaw. 

Samson killed de lion ; long atter de lion was dead, 

Bees made honey in de lion's head. 

Samson put fo'th a riddle, an' de riddle was guessed 

in seben days 
He would put forth a feast. 
In seben days Samson's riddle was not in view. 

Pallestines tol' Samson's wife, 
Ask him if he really pleased to tell hit to thee. 
On the sebenth day befo' de sun went down, 
Pallestines ask Samson what was stronger dan lion, 
What was sweeter dan honey. 



300 Jfrom a ^rmtfjern ^orcd 

Samson went to town to stay too late. 
Dey want to kill Samson as dey lay in wait. 
But Samson was very strong. 
He pulled up de gatepos* an' carried hit along. 
Samson burned down de fiel' ob cawn. 
When dey look f o' Samson, he was gone ! 

Three thousand men begun to plot. 

Fo' very long, ol' Samson was caught. 

Dey boun' him down while walkin' along, 

An' he tuck an ol' jawbone. 

Samson moved his arm, an' de rope popped like 

thread. 
When Samson got through slayin', three thousand 

was dead. 

Read about Samson fum his birth, 

De strongest man dat libed on earth. 

Read way back in ancient times 

When he killed three thousand Pallestines. 

Samson's wife sot down on his knee. 

* Say where do your strength lie, please tell hit to me. ' 

She talked so fair, Samson say, * Jes' cut off my hair, 

Shave my head as clean as yo' han', 

Den my strength will be as a natural man. ' " 

He paused apologetically, **Deys mo' to hit but 
you mought get tired of hit all." 

"Very interesting," I commented. "Now can 
you give us a regular ballet ? " 



^orcFi d^ailltxy 301 



"I'll gib you one 'bout en Frankie. Hit's a 
favorite one in Texas. ' ' And he relayed the woes 
of dusky Frankie: 

"Frankie was a good girl, as everybody knows. 
Frankie sabed her money to buy her man some clo'se. 
Oh, he's her man, but he done her wrong! 

Frankie went to de bar to get a bottle ob beer. 
Said, *Mr. Bartender, hab my man Albert been here? 
Oh, he's my man, but he done me wrong ! * 

Said Mr. Bartender, ' Miss Frankie, I ain' gwine tell 

you no lies. 
I seen yore man Albert wid dat Sarah Slies. 
Oh, he's yore man, but de done you wrong!' 

Frankie went home to get a gun. 
An' she shot her man Albert wid his own forty-one. 
Oh, he was her man, but he done her wrong ! 

*Turn me ober, Frankie, turn me ober slow. 
Turn me ober, Frankie, fo' dat bullet hurts me so. 
f Oh, I'm yore man, but I done you wrong. * 

An' den dey put po' Albert 
In a bran' new livery hack. 
An' dey took him to de grabeyard. 
But dey never brought him back. 

Oh, he was her man, but he done her wrong!" 



302 ifrom a ^otitfjetn 3^oxt\) 

Here we were interrupted by a thin whisper of 
a voice. "I think entirely too much attention is 
being paid to those colored persons!" 

As I looked toward the spot from which the 
sound came, I saw a ghost as thin as a piece of 
paper. "Who are you, my friend?" I asked. 
*'And what happened to you — a landslide?" 

"No, " he said in a knife-like voice. "I had to 
ride in the New York subway at the rush hours. 
I assumed this shape by degrees, till one day my 
breath left me altogether, because it had no room 
at all." 

' ' I know how it feels ! I've been there myself ! ' ' 
I murmured sympathetically. 

A husky voice spoke up from the couch, and 
I looked round to see a man in fur overcoat, with his 
collar turned up. "I froze to death during war 
times!" he hoarsed." And I don't know whether 
to haunt Garfield or my landlord. Whenever I go 
at one, he refers me to the other, and each turns 
a cold shoulder to me!" 

"Aren't there — warm regions — you could thaw 
out in?" I questioned tentatively. 

"They won't let me into Hell, for fear I'd lower 
the temperature too much, " he saicj. 

As he spoke the words dropped in icicles from 



^orcf) 3^ai\ltvp 303 



his lips and fell to the floor with a rattle. Tears 
froze on his cheeks. 

''What you need is a ghost union," broke in a 
burly voice with a soap box accent. *'You never 
can get your rights by yourself. Organize, organ- 
ize — that's the thing! Then well have those 
mortals on the run. " 

''Is there a ghost union?" I asked breathlessly. 

*'No, but there ought to be. I'm a walking 
delegate now to work it up. The ghosts are 
mobilizing and we'll straighten out things. We'll 
get our hours standardized, demand extra pay 
for day work, have proper conditions for haunt- 
ing arranged, and get things going our way. 
If we ever get industrially democratized, the live 
ones won't have the chance of a ghost to resist 
us." 

*'You have such common sentiments, my good 
man," put in an aristocratic ghost in the wicker 
chair. "You speak as if all ghosts belonged to 
the laboring classes. " 

"And don't you haunt any yourself?" sneered 
the soap box. 

"Certainly not. I have my ghost to do that." 

' ' Your ghost ? " I cried incredulously. ' ' Does a 
ghost have a ghost?'* 



304 ifrom a ^outfjern JPorcf) 

"Assuredly," he responded. ** Going without 
your ghost would be like getting along without 
your valet — possible, of course, for simple-minded 
souls, but extremely undesirable. I have my ghost 
to do my haunting for me. " 

"But where does he come from?" I queried, 
with more curiosity than politeness. 

"The ghosts of strong personalities are so much 
alive that they have their own ghosts," he ex- 
plained. "A ghost once removed is a more pallid 
specter, but quite active. Here, James, " he called 
into the shadow, and an unsubstantial wraith 
came forward. 

"I've got no use for stuck-up spooks that keep 
body ghosts, " growled the unpleasant pipe. 

I hastily interposed, to prevent friction, and 
turned to Jake. "Can't you give us another reel 
or ballet?" 

He picked tentatively at his banjo, leaned his 
head back against the white column, and sang of 
the Boston Burglar, his rich notes throbbing 
through the air. 

"There goes a Boston burglar, 
All wrapped in iron an' bound. 

For great, guilty crimes he's done. 
He's bound for Huntsville town." 



J^otcft Haillerp 305 



("Huntsville is de place where a pentitentiary 
is, in Texas," Jake informed the uninitiate.) 

''Boys who have their Hberty, 
Pray ke:p it if you can. 
When you get to de age of twenty or twenty-three, 
Don't go to de penitentiary!" 

Here Ahashuerus stirred jealously. "I know 
one 'bout de Titanic, Mistis, " he suggested. 

**A11 right, give it to us, " I said. "But wait a 
minute till I get some phonograph records and 
capture these songs for the folklore society. " 

Presently the rolling melodies poured into the 
machine. 

*'It was in the year nineteen hundred an' twelve, 
On April the fourteenth day. 
When de great Titanic struck a iceberg, 
An' de people hab to run an' pray. 

Chorus : 

God moved on de waters, God moved on de waters, 

God moved on de waters. 

An' de people had to run' an' pray. 

While the guards who had been watchin*. 

Were asleep fo' dey was tired, 
Dey heard de great excitement, 

An' many guns was fired. 

Chorus : 

30 



3o6 iftom a ^outtjern ^orcfj 

Some people had to leabe dey happy homes, 

An* all dat dey possessed. 
Lawd Jesus, will you hear us, 

Hear us in our distress? 

Chorus : 

When de captain gib his orders. 
It was w^omen an' children first; 

Many lifeboats was let down, 
An* many libes was crushed. 

Chorus : 

Some women had to leave dey loved ones, 

An' flee fo' de safest place. 
But when dey seen dey loved ones drown, 

Dey hearts did almost break. 

Chorus : 

The survivors in general did escape to de Ian', 

Dey lives dey tried to save. 
But de torture an' de price dey paid fo' life 

Is a warnin' to ebery man brave. 

Chorus : 

Watchers' hearts on de boats was touched, 
An* dey eyes was moved to tears, 

When widows inquired ob dey loved ones, 
Wid nothin* in dey hearts but fears. 

Chorus : 



^orcf) i^aiUerp 307 



It's bes' to stay away fum de ocean, 

De dry ol' Ian* am de best. 
Fo' den you don't get drownded, 

When you lay down to rest." 

Chorus : 

"I know one 'bouten de Titanic, too!" broke in 
Jake. 

**Let us have it, " I responded, and he tuned his 
banjo again. 

"Come, all you people, ef you want to know 
Something dat happened not so long ago. 
I guess yo' heard bout dat misteree. 
Bout de Titanic sankin* in de deep, blue sea. 
Dey was people on dat ship 
Had Elgin movement in dey hip. 
Captain Smith had de worry-blues. 
I got de Titanic movement in my hip, 
Wid a twenty-year guarantee. 
I ain't good-lookin' an' I don't dress fine, 
But I angles in my hips, an' I'm goin' to take my 
time!" 

A new voice crisped in on Jake's song, as a 
sprucely dressed specter pointed index finger at 
the ban joist. ' ' That darkey ought to have lessons 
from an efificiency expert. He wastes half his 
motions picking the banjo. He could get twice 



3o8 Jfrom a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

as much tune for the same amount of energy, if he 
didn't sway back and forth, and pat his feet, and 
roll his eyes as he does. " 

"Are you an efficiency expert?" I asked. 

**Yes. I am carrying over into the other side 
the modern American business methods. There's 
been too much waste haunting in the past, but 
I'm revolutionizing the ghost world. In these 
days, what with his general haunting, as well as 
attending those meetings of the Spiritualists, and 
the Psychical Research societies, the modern ghost 
is overworked. He has no time to loaf. The 
person that thinks of the hereafter as a long rest 
misses his guess. Nowadays the ghost sees his 
duty and does it promptly, and there's no shilly- 
shallying about his methods. He is getting up on 
the knowledge of efficiency and conserves his 
energy, so he makes no false motions. I expect to 
improve on the mortal methods presently, and 
then I'm coming back to haunt business offices and 
factories on earth, to make them reform. " 

"It's interesting to know that you have such 
liberty of motion," I commented. "The old-^ 
fashioned ghosts were tied at home more. " 

"That wouldn't be possible now," he said. 
"Because, suppose we were restricted to certain 



J^orcf) l^ailUtp 309 



houses as in the past? Modern houses are torn 
down so quickly, and where would the poor ghosts 
be then ? Neither could we haunt certain families, 
for people move about so much now and never stay 
in the same place. " 

I heard a scuffling over in a dark corner, and saw 
two ghosts pummeling each other vigorously. 

*'Come! Come!" I cried. "Who are you, and 
what are you fighting about?" 

**We are a duplex personality ghost, " they said 
in a sulky voice. **And we don't get along well 
together." 

* ' Obviously not, ' * I retorted. * ' Are there many 
of your kind?" 

"Oh, yes, " they answered, glaring at each other. 
"There are even some multiple ghosts, which are 
worse off. Some complex people now insist on 
having half a dozen ghosts." 

"I wonder what sort of living man you were," 
I mused. "I'm always looking at people and 
wondering what sort of ghosts they will make, and 
now it is the other way about. " 

"It's like having two suits of clothes, " answered 
the duplex. "Nobody wants to wear the same 
personality all the time. Some folks have ghosts 
to suit all their moods." 



310 ifrom a ^outfjern ^orcfi 

I had noticed a little girl ghost who sat in the 
corner without speaking, silently wiping her eyes. 

**Who are you, dear, and what are you crying 
for?" I asked her solicitously. 

*'I don't like to tell," she whimpered. "I've 
always felt unnatural, but I couldn't help myself!" 

''What did you die of, child?" 

* * I was worked to death ! ' ' she sobbed. ' ' Every- 
body made me work. Day and night I had to 
slave, doing things no child is expected to do. I 
had to look after grown people and run things in 
general, and reform the world, instead of just being 
a natural child. It killed me!" She burst into a 
wail of rebellion. 

"Where did you live?" I insisted. 

She leaned over the porch edge to let her tears 
drip down on the flower bed. * * I didn't really live 
anywhere. I was just in books. I was the 
gla-a-ad child! And I'm glad I'm dead!" 

"I. agree with you!" I cried. "You were an 
unnatural little prig, and it's to be hoped you're 
very dead!" 

The scholar stirred pensively in his easy-chair. 
"It strikes me," he observed thoughtfully, "that 
a number of other literary types have been done to 
death. But the public doesn't know it, so they 



^orc6 d^ailUtp 311 



have to go on, making a false show of life. I think 
this ghost congress in session should take steps to 
insist on the rights of dead things to be dead. " 

"For instance?" I asked with interest. 

**Well, the compulsory happy ending to the 
American short story, for one thing, and for an- 
other, the dismal end to the Russian story. No 
wonder the Russians have had revolution after 
revolution, if that is what they have been fed 
up on." 

"You're right," brisked the efficiency expert. 
"Now, what we need to do is to appoint a com- 
mittee of the whole to haunt the editors, and who- 
ever is responsible for such practices. Editorial 
pillows are accessible to ghosts. " 

At that, all the ghosts who had ever tried to 
write a short story — and most of them had ! — rose 
in concert, clamoring to be appointed to go at 
once. They made so much noise that the hounds 
came rushing out of their kennel, ululating joy- 
ously, in the hope that a fox hunt was being started. 
When the pack reached the front of the house and 
caught a glimpse of the personnel of the party, 
they put their terrified tails between their legs and 
howled back to the kennel. 

When the clamor had subsided, Dave Billings 



312 jFrom a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

remarked mournfully, "Dogs don't like us. But 
that there bird, now, he says this is his kind of 
party." 

And the little screech owl, sitting in the oak 
tree by the porch, tremuloed grievously that it 
did. 

''Ghosts has a hard time in these days, " gloomed 
the overalls. "It's worse in cities than in the 
country, even. All the big houses now employ 
ghost exterminators who keep ghosts out of a 
building, just as they do vermin exterminators. 
Insurance companies will insure against being 
haunted too, though the rates are pretty high. " 

"It's hard being hunted about as we are," 
agreed the frozen spirit. "People hate us as they 
do germs. There should be an asylum for infirm 
and dependent spooks. " 

"I've always wondered if a germ didn't feel 
sensitive," I mused. "It must be dreadful to 
know that people boil themselves to avoid contact 
with you." 

"And another thing there ought to be is a ghost 
exchange, " growled the pipe. "This thing of for- 
ever being yourself gets my ghost. " 

"Yes, why can't we socialize and swap haunts 
at will?" agreed the soap box. 



5ottf) i^aillerp 313 



** Don't ask me to exchange personalities with 
you!" the flannelette nightgown said coldly. 

*'No, lady, I won't," he grunted sarcastically. 

**That idea appears to me a feasible one," 
meditated the scholar. "A general transfer of 
ghosts after death would be satisfactory. Per- 
sons who in life have yearned to be different — and 
who hasn't? — could change their temperaments. 
Meek little rabbity men could be prize fighters, 
and hen-pecked husbands could be wife beaters. 
One-legged men could win Marathon races, and 
homely women could become beauties." 

*'Sir!" broke in the spinster. "Are your re- 
marks intended to be personal?" 

*'0h, no, madam!" he assured her, with one 
imperturbable glance at her face. 

I looked about hastily for some excuse for in- 
terruption, and spied a harassed-looking shade 
sitting by himself on the edge of a chair. 

"I don't believe I have heard your death his- 
tory," I said. 

He glanced uneasily about him. **I'm haunted 
by a living person!" he whispered, in frightened 
tones. 

' ' Tell me about it ! " I exclaimed. ' ' That's most 
extraordinary." 



314 Jftom a ^outfjern ^orcfj 

"It's very irregular," he agreed dolefully. 
"He's a reporter for a yellow newspaper, and he 
wants to interview a ghost. He haunts me night 
and day. I can't lie down in the day to sleep that 
I don't wake to find him squatting by my pillow. 
I won't be written up in his wretched sheet! I 
won't! I won't!" 

"What do you do when he speaks to you?" I 
asked sympathetically. 

"I pretend I'm a deaf and dumb ghost. I talk 
on my fingers to him. But he's off now learning 
the finger alphabet, and whatever shall I do when 
he comes back? I don't really know the alphabet 
myself, though," he concluded with a shade of 
hopefulness. 

"He's liable to hunt up the ghost of a fountain- 
pen and ask you to write to him, " pessimistically 
put in the aristocrat. 

"Fountain pens don't have ghosts. They're 
devils," the scholar answered emphatically. 

"Jake, rattle your banjo and give us another 
little tune to cheer this friend up, " I suggested. 

"I don' reckon you ever played craps, is you, 
Mistis?" Jake asked. 

"No," I answered. "Tell me about it.*' 

"Wellum, hit's disaway. When we throws 



J^orcJ) l^aillerp 315 



craps an' hit falls de same fo' you an' fo' me, we 
calls hit a hawss an' a hawss. Yas'm, I don' know 
what dat means. Hit's jes' a term o' speakin'. 
When hit's mo' fo' one dan fo' de odder, we says 
hit's a hawss on me, or on you. " 

"A hawss an* a flea an* a little mice 
Was settin' in de corner shakin* dice. 
De hawss foot slipped, an' he fell on de flea. 
De flea say, * Dat's a hawss on me!' " 

Dave Billings sprang up briskly, saying, "I 
move we shove these chairs back and have a dance. 
No telling what time we'll ever get together at a 
party again, and we better make hay while the 
moon shines. Jake and Ahash, stir up some jig 
for us, and let's have a time. " 

He clutched the spinster rotmd the waist and 
fairly swung her off her feet, as Jake and Ahash 
struck up the tune of 

"Chicken in de bread tray, 
Pickin' up de dough. 
Granny, will your dog bite? 
No, chile, no!" 

Dave's dancing was a joyous sight. He would 
spring up into the air at intervals, cracking his 



3i6 Jfrom a ^outfjern ^orcfi 

heels together, and making the Httle bells jingle 
merrily. The whole party was on the floor as 
"Weevily Wheat" sounded, and when Jake and 
Ahash played " Skip-to-my-Lou " the excitement 
was intensified. The Garfield ghost and the glad 
child mingled their tears, and the subway shade 
danced alone, being too diaphanous for even ghostly 
touch. 

As a pause came in the music, Dave Billings 
wiped the cold perspiration from his face with a 
red handkerchief, and said, "It's getting late. 
We'd better stir the dust toward home. " 

"The tyranny of the dark, the autocratic rule 
of ghost curfew is abolished now. Shades may 
come out when they please,*' argued the scholar. 

"And anyhow, there's no reliability to be placed 
on the clocks any more, " complained the spinster. 
"They skip a whole hour or drop back one most 
curiously. Sometimes, when I come out at twelve 
o'clock to haunt, I find it's only eleven by the 
clock, and people are still awake. And other times 
when I've started home at cock-crow, IVe found 
myself on the streets in my nightgown when people 
were starting out. It's like those wretched dreams 
that living people have. " 

"Anyhow, it's time we went home and let this 



5orcf) S^ailltxp 317 



lady get some sleep," insisted Dave. "If we 
wait much longer it'll be too light for us to see the 
way home. I pretty near stepped on a frog as it 
was, comin' up the hill." 

' * What sort of frog ? " I sprang up excitedly. 

"Smallish kind of ord'nary little frog, " returned 
Dave. ' ' It hopped in front of me all the way up 
the hill." 

* * Did it have a little hair line of white down the 
middle of its back? And could it walk as well as 
hop? Was it a friendly little frog?" I cried in 
agitation. 

"Search me!" Dave looked blank. 

"Oh, I thought maybe it was a little frog that I 
loved very much once. I thought maybe it had 
come back with the rest of you, because, you see, 
it's a little dead frog. " 

Dave looked embarrassed. "I'd a cotched it 
for you if I'd known you wanted it. " 

"Show me where you saw it last!" I cried 
eagerly. 

He led the way to the shadowy shrubbery, where 
I looked longingly into the boskage, calling, "Nip, 
oh, Nip!" 

But no answer came. 

The screech owl whimpered piteously above me 



3i8 jftom a ^outfjern ^orcfi 

as I searched in vain, and far back in the kennel 
the hounds howled lugubriously. 

"Come on away, you guys, an' let the lady find 
her frog, " gruff ed the pipe. 

** Good-bye!" they called softly to me, as they 
passed down the walk. 

"Come again ! " I called, at which they chorused, 
"We will!" 

"Thank you for a pleasant evening!" called the 
spinster. 

"Count on a woman's getting the ghost of the 
last word!" growled the soap box. 

Dave Billings herded his ghosts together and 
drove them before him down the hill, shouting : 

"Git along, little dogies! 
Quit your milling around!" 

As I still searched futilely among the bushes, I 
could hear an eerie echo from away over by the 
lake, the crooning of a cowboy ballad : 

"Bury me not on the lone prairie, 
Where the wild coyote shall howl over me!" 



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